UC-NRLF 


B    3    327   557 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

IN  MEMORY  OF 

Professor  Aram  Torossian 
I88ii-19ia 


-L. 


THE    BROUGHTON    HOUSE 


THE  BROUGHTON  HOUSE 


BY 


BLISS    PERRY 


NEW    YORK 

CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    SONS 
1890 


COPYRIGHT,   1890, 
BY  CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS. 


GIFT 


THE  BROUGHTON  HOUSE. 


i. 

"  Do  you  suppose  Mr.  Sonclerby  will  come,  my 
dear  ?  It  would  be  just  like  him  not  to  appear, 
after  all.  You  never  can  tell  anything  about  that 
man." 

Mrs.  Ellerton  hardly  looked  at  her  husband  as 
she  spoke,  for  she  was  taking  a  last  rapid  survey 
of  the  tiny  tea-table,  and  as  she  uttered  the  words 
"anything  about  that  man,"  she  bent  over  and 
made  a  more  accurate  right  angle  of  the  tea  knife 
and  spoon  at  the  visitor's  plate.  She  was  a  trifle 
heated,  —  the  result  of  overseeing  a  half-trained 
girl  in  the  kitchen,  —  and  she  wore,  albeit  some 
what  lightly,  that  anxiety  of  the  young  house 
keeper  which  finds  in  over-accuracy  a  compensation 
for  the  lack  of  experience.  Arthur  Ellerton  was 
standing  by  the  door  of  the  dining-room,  arrayed 
in  a  gray  flannel  study-gown  and  slippers.  Behind 
him  could  be  seen  the  desk  he  had  just  left,  and 
the  stained  pine  shelves  that  contained  his  scanty 
library.  It  was  late  Saturday  afternoon,  and  the 

l 

162 


2  THE  EEOUGHTON  HOUSE. 

ink  was  still  wet  upon  what  he  considered  a  rather 
satisfactory  ending  to  his  sermon  for  the  morrow. 

He  looked  across  the  room  at  his  wife,  amused  at 
her  preoccupied  air,  and  with  an  admiration  which 
extended  itself  even  to  the  huge  white  apron  that 
almost  hid  her  dotted  muslin  gown.  He  watched 
her  fine,  tall  figure  bending  over  the  table,  the 
swift  movement  of  her  fingers  among  the  glass  and 
silver,  and  the  gravity  of  her  serious  face  as  she 
laid  a  napkin  for  the  expected  guest.  Then  he 
broke  into  a  low,  contented  laugh. 

"Well?"  she  demanded,  suspiciously,  turning 
toward  him. 

"  Nothing,  Ruth ;  only  it  is  such  fun  to  see  you 
go  at  things." 

She  straightened  herself,  with  a  whimsical  affec 
tation  of  displeasure,  and  her  gray  eyes  danced. 
"  You  are  always  making  fun  of  me,  when  you 
don't  realize  at  all  the  important  things  I  have  to 
decide,"  she  said. 

He  leaned  against  the  door  and  smiled  at  her, 
without  answering. 

".But  do  you  suppose  he  is  coming  ?  "  she  asked. 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  said  Ellerton.  "I 
don't  pretend  to  know  anything  about  Sonderby. 
It  isn't  I  who  see  in  him  some  —  what  did  you  call 
it?  —  some  germ  — 

"  You're  too  bad,  sir,"  cried  Mrs.  Ellerton,  the 
color  rising  to  her  cheeks,  but  her  eyes  dancing 
still.  "You  know  you're  just  as  much  interested 


THE  BROUGHTON  HOUSE.  6 

in  him  as  I  am ;  and  he  must  be  lonely  this  vaca 
tion,  and  we  have  never  had  him  here,  and  — 

"  And  therefore  if  it  doesn't  rain  and  give  him 
the  excuse  he  had  when  he  stayed  away  from  Dea 
con  Starling's,  we  may  hope  to  see  him,  you  mean. 
But  he  has  five  minutes  more,  anyway,  and  I'm  not 
exactly  ready  myself,"  he  added,  looking  down  on 
his  study-gown  and  slippers,  and  pointing  ruefully 
to  an  ink-spot  on  his  white  but  sinewy  hand.  "  Let's 
go  and  see  if  he  isn't  in  sight.  "Will  you  take  my 
arm,  Mrs.  Ellerton?"  and  with  mock  formality, 
which  changed  an  instant  afterward  into  as  decided 
a  freedom,  these  high-spirited  young  people  crossed 
the  hall  and  the  parlor,  to  the  window  that  com 
manded  a  view  of  the  long  street  of  Broughton. 

The  parsonage  was  at  the  east  end  of  the  village. 
Broughton's  main  street  had  been  the  pride  of  the 
men  who  laid  it  out,  early  in  the  century,  and  it 
was  beautiful  enough  still  to  be  the  admiration  of 
the  summer  visitors,  whose  verdict  upon  this  mat 
ter  of  taste,  at  least,  was  considered  by  the  natives 
to  be  decisive.  Terminating  at  the  east  in  a  gentle 
rise,  upon  which  stood  the  great  white  Orthodox 
church,  on  either  side  of  which  roads  diverged, 
one  to  South  Broughton,  the  other  to  East  Part, 
the  street  ended  on  the  west  at  the  academy  build 
ing,  a  low  brown  structure  with  Corinthian  col 
umns  and  a  portico.  Between  the  academy  and 
the  church  stretched  a  level  half-mile  of  elm- 
arched  street,  broad  and  quiet.  The  narrow  side- 


4  THE  BROUGHTON  HOUSE. 

walks,  hardly  more  than  foot-paths,  followed  the 
elm-tree  trunks  closely,  curving  a  little  every  few 
yards  for  the  sake  of  avoiding  an  unusually  large 
or  irregularly  planted  tree.  The  country  road, 
with  an  abundant  margin  of  grass  on  either  side, 
widened  into  broad  gravelled  spaces  before  the 
hotel,  the  post-office,  and  Parkinson's  store.  How 
ever  ample  the  width  of  the  street  might  appear, 
it  did  not  discourage  the  huge  elms  from  throwing 
their  lean  branches  across  it  towards  one  another, 
even  the  tiniest  twigs  seeming  to  stretch  out 
eagerly,  so  that  when  the  evening  breezes  began 
to  move  the  dusty  leaves,  the  rustle  went  equally 
all  through  the  dark  green  canopy,  and  one  could 
not  tell  where  the  northern  elm  branches  ceased 
and  the  southern  ones  began,  such  was  the  inextri 
cable  soft  tangle. 

The  parsonage,  separated  from  the  church  only 
by  the  road  to  South  Broughton,  was  so  near  the 
street  that  from  the  parlor  window  one  could  see 
almost  the  whole  length  of  it.  The  Ellertons 
stood  a  few  moments  gazing  down  the  long  vista 
at  the  end  of  which  stood  the  low  academy,  dark 
now  against  the  deep  gold  of  the  sunset.  The 
street  was  empty  save  for  the  afternoon  stage  from 
the  Center,  whose  driver  was  throwing  off  the 
mail-bag  in  front  of  the  post-office. 

He  was  three  hours  late  that  day.  Soon  one 
white  gate  after  another  opened,  here  and  there 
along  the  street,  and  a  child,  or  a  woman,  or  an 


THE  BEOUGHTON  HOUSE.  5 

old  man,  would  move  leisurely  toward  the  office, 
knowing  that  the  postmistress  would  require  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  more  to  distribute  the  mail, 
but  unable  to  deprive  themselves  of  the  pleasure 
of  waiting  and  watching.  But  while  the  minister 
and  his  wife  were  scanning  the  street  for  John 
Sonderby,  the  academy  teacher,  they  suddenly 
recognized  his  short  figure  and  heavy  walk  as  he 
came  out  from  the  space  in  front  of  the  hotel, 
beyond  the  post-office,  half-way  down  the  street, 
and  turned  eastward  towards  the  parsonage. 

"  Well,  I  declare,  there  he  is  ! "  cried  Ellerton. 

"Didn't  I  tell  you  I  knew  he  would  be  here?" 
asserted  the  minister's  wife,  triumphantly,  forget 
ting  the  doubt  which  had  possessed  her  but  a  few 
moments  previously.  "  Hurry,  Arthur  !  I  want 
you  to  be  here  when  he  comes  in." 

Ellerton  disappeared  up  the  front  stairs  to  make 
a  hasty  toilet,  while  his  wife  took  off  her  big  white 
apron,  and  carrying  it  into  the  sitting-room,  threw 
it  somewhat  unceremoniously  into  a  closet.  Then 
with  a  glance  at  her  hair  in  the  gilt-framed  mirror 
hanging  over  the  sewing-machine,  and  a  deft 
stroke  or  two  at  its  gold-brown  .masses  with  her 
quick  fingers,  she  came  through  the  dining-room 
again,  took  a  final  look  at  the  table,  hurried  to  the 
kitchen  to  tell  Mary  Jane  to  put  the  tea  steeping, 
and  then,  closing  the  folding-doors  that  shut  the 
dining-room  from  the  parlor,  sat  down  in  her  best 
plush  chair  to  await  the  sound  of  the  door-bell. 


6  THE  BEOUGHTON  HOUSE. 

There  was  a  click  at  the  front  gate,  and  John 
Sonderby  came  up  the  straight  gravelled  path  to 
the  piazza.  He  glanced  at  the  flower-beds,  with 
their  plentiful  sprinkling  of  new  shingles  stuck 
firmly  into  the  soil,  and  pencilled  with  Latin  names  ; 
but  the  flowers  to  be  seen  were  few.  The  grass  was 
cut  as  neatly  as  scythe  could  cut  it,  lawn-mowers 
being  a  rare  luxury  in  Broughton.  The  Virginia 
creeper  was  thick  upon  the  white  posts  of  the 
piazza,  and  even  climbed  along  the  roof,  hanging 
down  here  and  there  in  waving  pendants,  scarcely 
stirring  in  the  quiet  evening  air.  The  parsonage 
was  an  attractive  place,  nestling  there  under  the 
side  of  the  knoll,  and  Sonderby  found  himself 
struck  with  its  homelikeness  and  charm.  He  had 
never  been  there  before  —  except  once  in  the  even 
ing  —  since  the  Ellertons  came  to  Broughton  the 
previous  autumn.  The  school-teacher  made  few 
calls,  at  best,  being  fertile  in  excuses  to  himself, 
while  to  those  who  invited  him  he  was  exasperat- 
ingly  non-committal  in  his  formulation  of  accept 
ances  and  regrets. 

"  I  don't  know  why  I'm  here,"  he  thought,  as  he 
passed  under  the  fringe  of  Virginia  creeper,  and 
hesitating  a  moment  between  the  old-fashioned 
brass  knocker  upon  the  centre  panel  of  the  door 
and  the  brand-new  bell-handle  at  the  side,  pulled 
the  latter,  slowly  at  first,  and  then  with  a  powerful 
jerk.  The  tinkling  had  not  ceased  when  the  door 
opened.  Sonderby  had  expected  to  see  Mary 


THE  BEOUGHTON  HOUSE.  1 

Jane,  a  pupil  of  his  during  the  winter  months, 
who  acted  as  "help  "  for  the  minister's  wife  out  of 
school  hours  and  in  vacations.  But  instead  of  the 
awkward  figure  and  bashful  smile  of  Mary  Jane, 
Ruth  Ellerton's  tall  form,  graceful  head,  and 
shining  gray  eyes  confronted  him.  He  was  a 
trifle  embarrassed,  and  half  missed  the  frankly 
outstretched  hand,  but  collected  himself  as  their 
fingers  righted  and  she  gave  his  hand  a  cordial 
pressure,  smiling  her  welcome  as  she  did  so. 

They  stood  a  moment  in  the  narrow  hall,  while 
she  hung  up  his  straw  hat,  remembering  as  she 
glanced  at  it  that  her  brother  had  worn  a  hat  of 
that  model  two  seasons  before.  Then  she  ushered 
her  guest  into  the  parlor. 

"  We  are  very  glad  to  see  you  at  last,  Mr.  Son- 
derby,"  she  began.  Then  it  occurred  to  her  that 
that  was  not  a  particularly  happy  opening ;  it  im 
plied  too  much  as  to  his  previous  discourtesy. 

"  You  are  very  kind,"'  he  replied,  somewhat  help 
lessly.  She  sat  in  her  plush  chair,  her  hands  play 
ing  with  the  handkerchief  in  her  lap.  Sonderby 
had  taken  a  cane  rocking-chair,  much  too  low  for 
him,  and  sat  with  his  knees  high,  looking  uncom 
fortable. 

"  AVhat  do  you  find  to  do  all  these  long  summer 
days  ?  "  she  asked,  busying  her  brain  meanwhile  to 
discover  an  excuse  for  getting  him  to  change  his 
seat. 

"  Well,"  he  answered,  "  not  much  of  anything 


8  THE  BROUGHTON  HOUSE. 

in  particular.  I  have  never  loafed  a  summer  vaca 
tion  before  —  that  is,  since  I  left  college." 

"No?" 

"  No.  I  can't  tell  yet  whether  I  shall  like  it. 
Last  year  I  was  down  at  Calvin  Johnson's." 

"  Were  you  ?  I  suppose  that  is  a  pleasant  place 
to  board,  isn't  it?"  The  minister's  wife  spoke 
rapidly,  as  if  the  conversation  were  now  success 
fully  started.  "  Some  friends  of  mine  were  there 
once,  years  ago.  It  is  such  a  beautiful  farm." 

"  It  is  probably  the  best  farm  in  town,"  said  the 
school-teacher.  "  But  you  see,  I  wasn't  a  boarder ; 
that  is,  not  exactly  of  the  summer  kind." 

Mrs.  Ellerton  looked  puzzled. 

Sonderby  seemed  to  study  her.  "  I  was  haying 
it,"  he  explained,  looking  her  directly  in  the  eyes ; 
"  haying  and  harvesting  with  the  Johnson  boys." 

"  Oh,"  she  said. 

He  had  apparently  exhausted  the  topic,  and  sat 
gazing  at  her. 

"Did  you  like  it?  "  she  asked. 

"  The  haying  ?  Well,  there  is  some  satisfaction 
in  it." 

"  Oh,  there  must  be,"  she  broke  in,  with  an  eager 
vagueness.  "  It  is  such  clean  work,  and  the  odor 
of  new-mown  hay  is  so  delicious ;  and  then  these 
beautiful  June  and  July  days,  and  — 

She  hesitated,  seeing  him  smile  grimly.  "  I  used 
to  ride  on  the  hay-cart  at  my  grandfather's,  in  the 
country,"  she  went  on,  plunging  in  deeper.  "  My 


THE  BROVGHTOX  HOUSE.  9 

brother  used  to  follow  the  cart,  and  what  do  you 
call  it  —  rake  after  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  replied  Sonderby,  lifting  himself  a  trifle 
in  his  low  chair,  and  continuing  to  observe  her. 
Her  reminiscences  failed.  She  was  conscious  of 
being  vexed,  and  of  the  color  in  her  cheeks.  She 
began  to  see  how  it  was  that  people  came  to  think 
John  Sonderby  a  difficult  person  to  entertain.  She 
must  try  some  other  topic,  clearly. 

"Are  there  many  people  at  the  hotel?*'  she 
inquired. 

"  There  are  not  so  very  many." 

She  was  exceedingly  glad  to  see  her  husband, 
who  ran  down  the  front  stairs  and  appeared  at  the 
parlor  door  at  this  juncture. 

"Oh,  how  do  you  do,  Mr.  Sonderby?"  Eller- 
ton  cried.  "  We  are  very  glad  to  see  you  here  at 
last."  It  occurred  to  Ruth  Ellerton  that  her  hus 
band  began  much  as  she  had  done,  but  she  had 
confidence  in  his  easy  way  with  people.  Ellerton 
crossed  the  room  swiftly  to  meet  the  guest :  Son 
derby  rose  a  trifle  awkwardly  from  his  low  chair, 
and  the  two  shook  hands.  The  minister  was  the 
taller,  and  his  frock  coat  added  to  his  apparent 
height;  straight,  athletic,  with  a  boyish,  smoothly 
shaven  face,  blue  eyes,  and  light  brown  hair.  Son- 
derby  stooped  slightly,  but  his  shoulders  were 
powerful,  and  his  whole  frame  was  solidly  put 
together ;  his  full  beard  made  him  seem  older  than 
Ellerton,  though  he  was  really  three  years  younger. 


10  THE  BBOUGHTON  HOUSE. 

"  Glad  to  see  you,"  Ellerton  repeated,  dropping 
the  school-teacher's  hand. 

"You  are  very  kind,"  said  Sonderby.  As  the 
latter  turned  to  his  cane  chair,  he  saw  that  his 
hostess  had  laid  a  possessing  hand  upon  it. 

"  Won't  you  try  that  other  one  ?  "  she  suggested. 

Before  the  teacher  could  seat  himself,  Ellerton 
began,  in  his  high,  clear,  fluent  voice,  a  rapid  stream 
of  talk,  —  cheery  nothings :  the  weather,  the  roads, 
the  crops,  the  influx  of  summer  visitors,  —  in  all 
of  which  Sonderby  took  his  share  briefly,  but  cor 
dially  and  easily  enough,  while  Mrs.  Ellerton 
listened  to  her  husband,  half  in  amusement  and 
half  in  admiration.  Arthur  had  such  a  frank,  con 
fident  manner  of  approaching  people,  as  if  he  could 
discern  beforehand  that  they  would  like  him. 

In  a  few  minutes  Mary  Jane,  inserting  her  red 
fingers  between  the  white  folding-doors  that  led  to 
the  dining-room,  pushed  them  apart,  and  revealed 
her  bashful,  smiling  countenance.  She  did  not 
know  whether  it  was  proper  to  bow  to  her  school 
teacher  first,  or  to  announce  that  tea  was  served, 
so  she  made  an  ineffective  compromise  by  doing 
both  at  once.  Mrs.  Ellerton  bit  her  lips  ;  then  rose 
and  led  the  way  to  the  table.  It  was  a  square 
little  table,  covered  with  her  best  Irish  linen  cloth, 
and  her  treasured  Vienna  plates.  On  the  unoc 
cupied  side,  opposite  Sonderby's  chair,  stood  a  wide- 
mouthed  pitcher  filled  with  sweet-peas.  There  was 
a  pause  as  the  three  took  their  places ;  then  they 


THE  BROUGHTON  HOUSE.  11 

bowed  their  heads,  and  the  minister  said  grace. 
The  moment  it  was  finished  Mary  Jane  emerged 
from  the  kitchen  door,  behind  which  she  had  been 
listening,  and  proceeded  to  pour  the  water. 

Ellerton  passed  Sonderby  the  cold  tongue,  while 
the  hostess  arranged  the  fragile  cups  and  saucers. 

4'  One  lump,  if  you  please,"  said  Sonderby,  in 
answer  to  her  question ;  "  yes,  with  cream." 

So  opened  the  conversation.  It  was  really  very 
agreeable  in  the  parsonage,  and  Sonderby  wondered 
why  he  had  so  long  excused  himself  from  coming. 
He  faced  the  parlor  as  he  sat,  and  across  the  sweet- 
peas  he  could  see  the  open  parlor  window,  with  the 
Virginia  creeper  swaying  in  the  breeze  upon  the 
piazza  post  outside,  while  the  cool  dusk  gathered 
everywhere.  There  were  a  couple  of  candles  upon 
the  table  in  tall  bronze  candlesticks,  but  they  were 
not  lighted. 

Sonderby  sipped  his  tea,  and  began  to  feel,  for 
him,  exceedingly  at  home  in  a  strange  house. 

"You  haven't  asked  me  anything  about  the 
school,"  he  found  himself  saying,  with  a  smile ; 
"I  have  learned  to  expect  questions  about  that 
the  first  thing  now,  everywhere  I  go." 

u  Perhaps  you  would  like  a  little  relief,"  replied 
Mrs.  Ellerton.  "  I  think  you  might  be  excused  in 
vacation,  anyway.  I  know  my  husband  gets  tired 
of  being  asked  about  church  work,  sometimes, 
though  he  doesn't  like  to  own  it." 

"  Take  care,  mv  dear,"  cried  Ellerton. 


12  THE  BEOUGHTON  HOUSE. 

"  It  was  too  bad,"  she  persisted,  looking  half  at 
her  husband  and  half  at  Sonderby,  "  to  see  how 
you  turned  the  subject  when  that  old  gentleman 
at  the  last  conference  wanted  to  talk  about  the 
decline  of  Unitarianism  in  the  hill  towns,  and  you 
insisted  on  talking  politics." 

Ellerton  laughed  at  the  reminiscence.  "  I 
couldn't  help  it,"  he  said;  "he  was  getting  ma 
terial  for  a  quarrelsome  article,  I  knew,  and  so  I 
tried  to  steer  him  towards  civil-service  reform, 
instead." 

It  occurred  to  Sonderby  that  there  were  some 
things  very  unmiriisterial  about  Arthur  Ellerton, 
and  he  recalled  mentally  some  of  the  widely  vary 
ing  comments  he  had  heard  upon  him,  during  the 
ten  months  of  Ellerton's  Broughton  pastorate. 

"Is  there  much  discussion  about  civil-service 
reform  at  church  conferences  ?  "  he  asked. 

"No,  I  can't  say  there  is,"  answered  Eller 
ton;  "perhaps  it  wouldn't  do  any  harm  if  there 
were  a  little  more.  But  then,  you  see,  I  haven't 
been  attending  them  so  very  long,"  he  added, 
gaily.  "Perhaps  one  learns  to  be  less  critical  in 
time." 

"You'd  better  not  confess  what  you  did  last 
April  at  one  of  them,"  said  the  minister's  wife. 
"  Did  you  ever  hear  of  such  a  thing,  Mr.  Sonderby, 
as  two  young  ministers  sitting  out  on  the  church 
steps  talking  boating,  while  the  conference  was 
going  on  inside?" 


THE  BEOUGHTON  HOUSE.  13 

She  did  not  know  why  the  school-teacher's  small 
blue  eyes  brightened  so  suddenly. 

"I  plead  extenuating  circumstances,"  broke  in 
Ellerton.  "  You  see,"  turning  to  Sonderby,  "  there 
is  a  classmate  of  mine  over  in  Brockville,  who  was 
a  delegate  at  that  meeting  in  the  Center  last 
spring.  I  didn't  know  he  was  there  till  half-way 
through  the  meeting,  when  I  looked  around  and 
there  he  was.  There  was  a  paper  on  'Divorce' 
being  read  at  the  time,  —  good  paper  too,  only  the 
man  who  wrote  it  can't  write  nor  think  of  anything 
else/' 

"  Perhaps  that  is  why  he  writes  so  well  about 
it,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Ellerton,  seriously. 

"  My  wife  reads  all  his  articles,"  explained  El 
lerton,  parenthetically.  "  Well,  I  don't  know  which 
of  us  winked  first,  but  we  started  for  the  door  at 
about  the  same  time.  Why,  that  fellow  and  I  had 
pulled  in  the  same  boat  for  two  years,  and  it  was 
nearly  four  since  I  had  seen  him.  We  stood  there 
on  the  church  steps,  talking  about  the  boys,  and  the 
sun  came  down  warm  and  spring-like — gracious! 
—  after  that  long,  dragging  winter  up  here,  and  we 
could  see  the  ice  breaking  up  down  on  the  river, 
and  the  first  thing  I  knew  something  was  said 
about  our  crew  this  year,  and  then  off  we  went 
into  old  times."  The  minister  drew  a  long  breath 
of  satisfaction.  "  But  the  conference  was  almost 
over  when  we  went  in  again,"  he  added,  con 
tritely. 


14  THE  BROUGHTON  HOUSE. 

"And  you  are  not  shocked?"  said  Mrs.  Eller- 
ton  to  Sonderby. 

"  No,"  he  said,  simply ;  "  I  was  on  the  crew  my 
self." 

"  Were  you  ?  Well,  well !  "  exclaimed  Ellerton. 
"  Let's  see,  your  college  —  was  —  ?  " 

Sonderby  named  a  small  Maine  college.  "  We 
never  rowed  you  but  once,"  he  said.  "  That  was 
my  Sophomore  year." 

Ellerton  looked  hard  at  him.  "  Where  were  you 
in  the  boat  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Bow,"  replied  Sonderby.  "  Do  you  remember 
the  finish?" 

"  I  should  say  I  did,"  cried  Ellerton. 

The  July  day,  five  summers  before,  came  back 
to  him  in  an  instant.  The  countrymen  from  Maine 
had  come  down  to  New  London  to  win,  and  nearly 
did  it.  They  had  pulled  a  dogged  race,  were  not 
to  be  shaken  off,  and  quickened  into  a  desperate 
spurt  at  the  finish  that  made  them  lap  the  cham 
pions  as  the  boats  shot  over  the  line.  Ellerton 
remembered  as  if  it  were  yesterday  that  supreme 
moment  when  every  pound  of  his  weight  was  al 
ready  on  the  oar  and  the  helpless  terror  was  at  his 
heart  as  their  stroke  increased  the  pace  and  yet  the 
Maine  boat  lapped  them.  He  had  never  forgotten 
his  glimpse  of  the  Maine  bow  oarsman,  who  was 
glancing  over  a  bare  wet  shoulder,  the  jaw  set,  the 
face  white,  and  the  eyes  aflame.  Ellerton  had 
heard  afterward  that  the  fellow  had  pulled  the 


THE  BEOUGHTON  HOUSE.  15 

race  with  a  felon  on  his  hand.  He  searched  the 
school-teacher's  reticent  face  for  a  sign  of  recogni 
tion.  The  figure  was  the  same,  though  clad  in  a 
black  cutaway  —  growing  shiny,  it  must  be  said  — 
instead  of  its  brown  bareness  of  five  years  before ; 
the  jaw  was  heavy,  to  be  sure,  though  bearded 
now  ;  the  eyes  were  like. 

"  Didn't  you  have  a  bad  hand?  "  Ellerton  asked. 

"  Yes,"  said  Sonderby,  with  a  smile.  The  men 
understood  each  other. 

'•  My  dear,"  said  the  minister,  "  Mr.  Sonderby 
and  I  are  old  antagonists.  It  is  a  great  pity  we 
never  found  it  out  before." 

"  Isn't  it!"  she  exclaimed.  *•  But  you  expect  to 
be  here  for  another  winter,  do  you  not,  Mr.  Son 
derby  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  the  school-teacher  answered. 

"  Oh,  I  hope  you  will,"  said  Mrs.  Ellerton,  so 
sincerely  that  she  even  surprised  herself  by  the 
unexpected  emphasis.  "  It  would  be  such  a  pity 
to  lose  you,  —  from  the  academy,  —  and  we  should 
be  so  sorry." 

"  Yes,"  interrupted  Ellerton.  in  his  hearty  voice, 
"  I  wish  you  might  stay.  But,  my  dear,  you  must 
remember  that  Broughton  isn't  exactly  a  metropolis, 
and  that  Mr.  Sonderby  wouldn't  think  of  staying 
here  forever,  probably." 

Mrs.  Ellerton  smiled  to  herself:  perhaps  her 
husband  was  not  planning  to  spend  his  days  in  a 
country  town  either. 


16  THE  BEOUGHTON  UOUSE. 

"  Let's  see,  you  have  been  here  —  isn't  it  three 
years,  Sonderby?"  the  minister  went  on. 

"  Three  years,"  replied  Sonderby. 

"I  had  forgotten,"  said  Ellerton.  "I  wish  I 
knew  every  one  in  town  as  well  as  you  —  ought  to 
know  them."  He  had  hesitated  a  moment  before 
the  "ought,"  because  he  understood  that  people 
complained  that  John  Sonderby  did  not  seem  to 
care  much  about  getting  acquainted  with  Brough- 
ton  folks. 

Sonderby  raised  his  eyebrows  a  little,  having 
understood  the  covert  reference  to  his  social  short 
comings.  "  No,  I  don't  know  many  people  here ; 
that  is,  I  don't  know  them  well,  though  of  course 
a  school-teacher  gets  so  that  he  can  tell  everybody's 
name.  But  do  you  think,"  he  asked,  hesitatingly, 
"  that  it  does  any  good  to  try  to  be  on  intimate 
terms  with  so  many  —  in  that  way  ?  It  seems  to 
me  that  the  people  are  simply  curious :  they  want 
to  find  out  all  they  can  about  you,  and  in  return 
for  the  information  they  are  willing  to  tell  you 
about  themselves.  I  can't  say  that  I  care  for  it," 
he  added,  apologetically.  He  was  not  used  to  talk 
ing  about  himself  in  this  way. 

"  I  know  what  you  mean,"  said  Ruth  Ellerton, 
slowly.  "  I  remember  how  it  was  when  we  first 
came  here."  She  looked  across  at  her  husband, 
and  they  both  laughed.  She  was  thinking  how, 
at  the  first  church  sociable  in  their  house,  the 
women  of  the  parish  had  fingered  the  curtains,  the 


THE  BPOUGHTOX  HOUSE.  17 

bureau-covers,  even  the  pillow-cases,  in  her  own 
room,  to  determine  their  quality  and  probable  price ; 
how  they  had  interrogated  her  as  to  her  father  and 
family,  her  old  home,  her  marriage,  her  husband, 
and  herself, — all  with  a  hard,  undisguised  curiosity, 
that  had  made  her  sick  at  heart. 

u  Mi's.  Ellertoii  thinks  that  people  are  too  kind, 
that  they  really  take  too  much  personal  interest  in 
you;  don't  you,  my  dear ?"  laughed  the  minister. 
He  was  not  sensitive  himself  to  such  trifles,  and 
rather  enjoyed  his  wife's  occasional  desperation. 

••  Oh.  I  suppose  the  ministers  family  belong 
fairly  to  the  public,"  she  sighed ;  ••  but  perhaps,  Mr. 
Sonderby,  it  is  the  same  way  with  the  school-teach 
ers.  But  one  must  surely  know  people  well,  if  one 
hopes  to  influence  them." 

"  Yes,"  remarked  Sonderby,  **  if  it  is  necessary 
to  influence  them  —  or,  what  I  mean  is,  if  one  can 
influence  them.  It  seems  to  me  that  people  are 
going  to  do  about  what  they  have  grown  up  to 
do.  Perhaps  that  isn't  a  very  high  way  of  looking 
at  it,  not  ideal  enough  for  a  school-teacher." 

"•  Oh,"  she  cried,  "  how  hard  it  is  to  know  just 
what  is  right  to  do  here  !  " 

"  Any  harder  than  it  is  down  at  the  Center,  or 
over  in  Brockville,  or  anywhere  else  ?  "  questioned 
Ellerton,  buoyantly. 

She  did  not  answer:  then,  somewhat  inconse 
quentially,  she  said.  k*  I  hope  you  will  stay  another 
winter,  Mr.  Sonderbv." 


18  THE  BEOUGHTON  HOUSE. 

Mary  Jane  came  in  at  this  point  with  a  fresh 
plate  of  hot  biscuit.  It  was  growing  quite  dim 
now  in  the  dining-room,  and  at  a  motion  from  her 
mistress  the  girl  lighted  the  tall  candles.  The 
three  talked  awhile  on  indifferent  subjects,  and 
then  Mary  Jane  changed  the  plates  and  refilled 
the  gentlemen's  glasses  with  ice-water.  The  host 
ess  served  her  strawberries  and  cream,  the  girl 
passed  the  sponge  cake,  to  which  much  of  her 
attention  that  day  had  been  devoted,  and  regret 
fully  left  the  room.  She  would  have  so  much 
liked  to  hear  what  Mr.  Sonderby  was  saying  about 
the  academy. 

It  was  so  quiet  and  cool  here  in  the  parson 
age,  Sonderby  kept  thinking.  Mrs.  Ellerton  was 
a  charming  woman,  after  all ;  her  husband  was  a 
good  fellow ;  it  was  too  bad  that  he  had  kept  him 
self  so  aloof  from  them.  There  was  a  different 
atmosphere  here  from  that  which  he  was  used  to 
at  the  hotel :  it  was  more  restful,  yet  more  strenu 
ous.  Was  it  preferable  ? 

"How  do  you  like  staying  at  the  Broughton 
House  ?  "  Mrs.  Ellerton  asked.  "  I  believe  you  are 
there  this  vacation." 

"  Yes ;  I  have  been  there  since  the  middle  of 
June."  He  did  not  really  answer  her  question. 

"  Do  they  set  a  good  table  ?  "  inquired  Ellerton. 
"  They  used  to  be  famous  for  it,  I  believe." 

"  That  was  more  on  account  of  the  suppers  they 
used  to  get  up  for  fishing-parties  from  the  Center," 


THE  BEOUGHTOX  IIOUSE.  19 

Sonderby  explained.  "  There  isn't  so  much  of  that 
nowadays.  Why,  I  don't  know ;  I  suppose  it  is  a 
very  fair  country  hotel.  Collins  seems  to  like  it ; 
this  is  the  fifth  year  he  has  been  here.  But,"  he 
added,  with  a  deprecatory  look,  "I  haven't  any 
thing  to  compare  it  with.  I  never  stayed  at  a  hotel 
before,  except  two  or  three  times  for  a  night  or  so. 
You  see  I'm  a  good  deal  of  a  countryman.  The 
town  I  came  from,  up  in  Maine,  is  smaller  than 
this." 

"  So  is  the  one  I  came  from,  down  in  Pennsyl 
vania/'  laughed  Ellerton.  ''There  is  nothing  like 
being  born  in  the  country,  is  there  ?  " 

"  Who  is  Mr.  Collins  ?  "  asked  the  hostess,  com 
ing  back  to  the  Broughton  House. 

"  Mr.  Collins  ?  "  replied  Sonderby.     "  I  thought 
you  knew  him.     He  is  a  woollen  manufacturer,  — 
Bruce  D.  Collins.    His  mills  are  down  near  Spring 
field,  I  believe." 

"  Is  he  dark  ?  "  said  the  minister's  wife. 

"  Why,  yes,"  Sonderby  answered,  judicially.  It 
was  clear  he  had  never  before  classified  his  acquaint 
ances  according  to  their  complexions. 

"I  often  see  him,"  said  Ellerton,  "but  had  for 
gotten  his  name.  It  must  have  been  he  whom  I  met 
down  on  the  Johnson  brook  a  while  ago.  He  was 
fishing  up,  and  I  down,  and  I  imagine  each  of  us 
was  rather  sorry  to  see  the  other." 

"It  was  very  likely  he,"  Sonderby   remarked. 
"  He  came  up  here  for  the  fishing,  in   the   first 


20  THE  BEOUGHTON  HOUSE. 

place,  he  told  me.  He  doesn't  seem  to  have  much 
to  do  nowadays." 

u  Well,  Broughton  isn't  the  place  for  a  very  busy 
man,"  was  the  minister's  reply :  "  he  wouldn't  get 
into  the  spirit  of  things  here.  Still,  I  have  won 
dered  a  good  deal  what  the  people  at  the  hotel 
manage  to  find  to  fill  up  the  time  with.  One  must 
have  some  variety,  you  know,  even  in  summer  hol 
idays." 

"  Variety !  I  wish  they  would  do  more  to  help 
the  people  here,  and  get  variety  in  that  way.  If 
they  had  the  variety  of  some  of  your  pastoral  work, 
for  instance,"  exclaimed  his  wife,  who  knew  the 
constant  and  often  unappreciated  work  that  filled 
her  husband's  days. 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  much  about  pastoral  work," 
said  the  school-teacher.  "  Perhaps  we  need  some 
down  at  the  Broughton  House.  But  speaking  of 
filling  up  the  time,  why,  the  days  go  fast  enough. 
We  don't  do  anything,  either ;  that  is,  not  most  of 
us  down  there.  Mr.  Floyd  —  he's  the  artist,  you 
know  —  goes  out  to  sketch  almost  every  morning ; 
but  he  doesn't  go  far,  and  we  sort  of  hang  round 
and  watch  him." 

44  Oh,  do  you  ?  "  broke  in  Mrs.  Ellerton,  enthusi 
astically.  "  How  very  interesting !  It  must  be 
perfectly  fascinating." 

She  was  as  eager  as  a  schoolgirl  to  know  more. 
Her  husband  smiled  at  her  zeal ;  he  left  pictures 
and  poetry  to  Mrs.  Ellerton,  for  the  most  part. 


THE  BROUGHTON  UOUSE.  21 

Sonderby  smiled  too :  he  was  thinking  how  vain 
Floyd  would  be  if  he  knew  this  superb-looking 
woman  took  an  interest  in  him. 

"  Mrs.  Floyd  was  a  Broughton  girl,  wasnt  she  ?  " 
asked  the  hostess. 

"  Yes."  Sonderby  paused  somewhat  awkwardly, 
as  if  he  had  meant  to  say  more,  but  he  hesitated, 
playing  with  the  spoon  in  his  empty  strawberry- 
dish.  "Do  you  know  her?"  he  said  at  last,  with 
his  small  blue  eyes  fixed  keenly  upon  Mrs.  Ellerton. 

44  No."  was  the  answer.  "  I  am  very  sorry.  We 
saw  her  in  church  one  day." 

"  Yes,  we  all  went  one  morning,"  said  Sonderby, 
turning  to  the  minister.  "  Collins  and  the  Floyds 
and  I.  Did  you  see  us  ?  " 

"I  am  pretty  sure  to  see  everybody,"  replied 
Ellerton,  who  remembered  well  the  quartette  that 
had  been  in  one  of  the  back  pews  two  weeks  pre 
viously.  "  In  fact,  I  wouldn't  mind  seeing  some  of 
you  there  oftener." 

A  day  before,  John  Sonderby  would  have  re 
sented  an  allusion  to  his  non-church-going  habits, 
especially  if  it  had  come  from  the  parson  himself. 
But  it  was  impossible  to  be  angry  with  this  cheery, 
frank  young  fellow  —  an  old  oarsman  at  that. 

"  I  don't  know  but  I'm  getting  into  bad  habits," 
he  confessed :  u  and  the  rest  are  not  exactly  what 
you  would  call  regular  —  that  is,  not  regular  at 
tendants  in  the  school  record  sense,"  he  added, 
somewhat  feebly. 


22  THE  BEOUGHTON  HOUSE. 

Ruth  Ellerton  looked  grave.  She  liked  Sonderby, 
and  she  had  seen  more  of  him  this  evening  than 
ever  before;  but  there  was  a  something  non-com 
mittal  about  him  that  distressed  her.  He  did  not 
take  sides  vigorously  enough.  The  summer  visit 
ors  harmed  Broughton  more  than  they  helped  it, 
she  was  sure ;  and  she  did  not  like  to  see  the 
school-teacher  walking  in  their  easy-going  Sabbath 
less  ways. 

They  had  already  been  sitting  long  over  their 
fruit,  and  Mary  Jane  appeared  once  or  twice  un- 
summoned,  at  the  kitchen  door,  to  reconnoitre.  It 
was  quite  dark  outside.  Ellerton  had  given  the 
conversation  a  new  turn  by  describing  the  universal 
church-going  of  a  hundred  years  ago  in  New  Eng 
land,  with  much  humor,  and  from  a  perfectly  non- 
professional  point  of  view;  Sonderby  was  listening 
with  some  curiosity. 

"  My  dear,"  suggested  Mrs.  Ellerton,  folding  her 
napkin  and  touching  the  bell.  As  they  rose  and 
walked  into  the  parlor  again,  Mrs.  Ellerton  was  at 
Sonderby's  side. 

"  I  must  call  on  Mrs.  Floyd,"  she  said. 

"Yes?"  he  answered.  He  presumed  it  would 
have  been  proper  to  say,  "  She  will  be  very  glad  to 
have  you,"  but  as  he  doubted  the  truth  of  this 
sentiment,  he  had  no  recourse  but  his  blunt 
"Yes?" 

Ruth  Ellerton  was  a  trifle  hurt  by  it.  "  I  have 
so  little  time  for  any  except  parish  calls,"  she  said, 


THE  BROUGHTON  HOUSE.  23 

rapidly,  ashamed  that  she  should  notice  his 
brusqueness. 

"Yes,  I  suppose  you  are  very  busy,"  he  an 
swered,  looking  straight  at  her — **busy  doing 
good." 

She  was  embarrassed  now;  her  husband  was 
watching  her,  interested  at  Sonderby's  outspoken 
ness,  —  Sonderby,  usually  so  reticent. 

"  But  if  you  can  come  down,"  Sonderby  went  on, 
"I'll  see  that  Floyd  gets  out  all  he  has  to  show. 
He  likes  to  talk  about  it." 

"Won't  you  come  into  the  library?"  interrupted 
Ellerton.  "  Perhaps  }-ou  may  like  to  look  over  my 
books."  They  crossed  the  hall  to  the  diminutive 
library.  The  minister  gave  his  guest  an  easy-chair 
by  the  table,  while  Mrs.  Ellerton  excused  herself 
in  order  to  give  some  encouragement  and  assist 
ance  to  Mary  Jane.  When  she  came  back,  fifteen 
minutes  later,  the  two  men  were  talking  boating. 
Sonderby  had  not  been  greatly  interested,  appar 
ently,  in  the  minister's  books  of  quotation  and 
illustration,  divinity  lectures,  and  volumes  of  the 
latest  systematic  theology. 

Their  boating  talk  ran  out  after  a  little,  how 
ever,  and  they  did  not  quite  return  to  the  freedom 
of  the  tea-table  conversation.  Mrs.  Ellerton  made 
an  effort  to  start  her  guest  upon  several  topics. 
The  newest  books  he  seemed  either  not  to  have 
read  or  not  to  think  worth  reading.  She  tried 
etching,  and  here  he  surprised  her  by  his  accurate 


24  THE  BEOUGHTON   HOUSE. 

knowledge  of  the  mechanical  processes  involved ; 
but  his  appreciation  of  "  states  "  was  very  meagre, 
and  he  showed  so  little  enthusiasm  over  her  half- 
dozen  treasures,  —  a  Palmer,  an  Appian,  and  a 
Jacque  or  two,  —  that  she  felt  disappointed  in  him 
again.  He  grew  restless  after  a  while,  looked  at 
his  watch,  then,  after  some  delay  in  which  the  talk 
on  all  sides  grew  more  aimless,  and  the  pauses 
longer,  rose  to  go,  explaining  that  he  was  expected 
to  make  the  fourth  hand  at  whist  that  night,  and 
that  the  others  were  waiting. 

Both  Ellerton  and  his  wife  went  to  the  door  with 
him.  When  he  had  fairly  got  his  hat  in  his  hand 
he  won  their  hearts  again  by  the  few  words  of 
laconic  cordiality  with  which  he  thanked  his  host 
ess,  looking  at  her  a  moment  almost  with  reverence 
as  she  stood  in  the  half-light,  with  the  library  lamp 
making  gleams  through  her  hair  and  bringing  out 
the  strong,  grave  lines  upon  her  face ;  then  turn 
ing  to  Ellerton  and  giving  him  that  silent  grip  of 
which  only  strong  men  understand  the  meaning. 
He  reached  the  front  gate  before  the  friendly  door 
was  closed,  and  he  was  alone. 

He  turned  down  the  silent  street,  with  his  straw 
hat  pushed  back  upon  his  head,  his  old  cut-away 
coat  unbuttoned,  his  hands  behind  him.  He  walked 
slowly.  Overhead,  the  elms  met  in  huge  black 
arches ;  the  foliage  seemed  solid,  impenetrable. 
There  was  scarcely  any  moon,  but  now  and  then, 
through  some  gap  in  that  dusky  roof,  a  star  ap- 


THE  BEOUGHTOS  HOUSE.  25 

peared,  large  and  brilliant.  The  night  would  have 
been  sultry  anywhere  else  than  up  among  these 
hills ;  but  here  it  was  fresh,  restful. 

Sonderby  stopped  more  than  once  to  listen  to  the 
soft  noises  of  the  night,  to  lean  against  the  rough 
bark  of  one  of  the  elms  and  gaze  upward  through 
the  black  boughs  and  the  blacker  foliage  to  the 
dark  blue  spaces  of  sky. 

He  had  had  a  happy  three  hours,  a  social  experi 
ence  quite  unknown  to  him  before,  shut  up  as  he 
had  been  these  three  years  to  Broughton  ways. 
He  was  hardly  ready  yet  for  the  whist  at  the  hotel, 
though,  after  all,  as  he  remembered,  he  had  made 
that  an  excuse  for  leaving  the  parsonage. 

Down  the  quiet,  deeply  shadowed  street  was  a 
yellow  glare  made  by  the  lamps  of  the  hotel.  His 
pace  grew  slower  as  he  neared  it ;  he  hated  to  leave 
the  silence,  the  coolness.  Almost  unconsciously  he 
crossed  to  the  other  side  of  the  street ;  he  meant  to 
steal  by,  unobserved,  and  take  a  leisurely  walk 
down  to  the  academy  and  back.  There  was  a  mur 
mur  of  voices  on  the  hotel  piazza.  How  well  lie 
knew  them  all !  Was  it  not  better  to  be  out  under 
the  elms  alone,  saying  nothing,  thinking  nothing. 
scarcely,  only  with  the  consciousness  awake  ? 

As  he  stole  from  the  shadow  of  one  tree  to  an 
other,  just  opposite  the  hotel,  but  the  width  of  the 
broad  street  away  from  it,  a  rich  bass  voice  called 
out  from  the  piazza.  — 

-  Hullo ! " 


26  THE  BEOUGHTON  HOUSE. 

Sonderby  stood  motionless  a  moment,  hesitating, 
then  walked  carelessly  out  into  the  lamp-light,  and 
crossing  the  dusty  grass,  wet  with  dew,  turned  in 
at  the  Broughton  House. 


II. 


THE  hotel  stood  a  few  feet  back  from  the  main 
street,  leaving  in  front  an  open  space,  grassy  once, 
but  now  gravelled.  This  plot  was  neither  beauti 
ful  nor  large,  but  it  was  sufficient  for  the  evolu 
tions  of  the  stage,  which  swung  up  to  the  hotel  in 
impressive  style  and  with  much  rattling  of  springs 
every  morning,  to  take  passengers  for  the  Cen 
ter.  Late  in  the  afternoon  it  turned  in  at  the 
hotel  again,  on  its  return,  but  more  quietly  this 
time,  for  the  horses  were  usually  tired  with  their 
ten  miles  of  up-hill  travelling.  In  the  afternoon, 
too,  the  post-office  seemed  to  be  the  end  of  the 
trip,  and  the  hotel  was  only  an  incident ;  whereas, 
in  the  morning,  the  driver  pulled  up  his  horses  at 
the  post-office  only  long  enough  to  let  the  sallow 
postmistress  hand  to  him  the  mail-bag,  —  it  was 
rarely  too  heavy,  —  and  then  cracked  his  whip  and 
gathered  his  reins  for  the  main  performance,  the 
circling  up  to  the  Broughton  House  piazza. 

For  thirty  years,  ever  since  the  railroad  was 
first  built  through  the  Center,  the  Broughton  stage 
had  made  this  daily  trip.  Once  or  twice,  back  in 
the  war-times,  the  severity  of  the  winter  storms 
had  forced  the  driver  to  leave  his  horses  at  a  half- 

27 


28  THE  BROUGHTON  HOUSE. 

way  point,  and  push  through  on  foot,  shouldering 
the  mail.  But  he  ahyays  got  through  somehow. 
During  most  of  the  thirty  years  there  had  been  the 
same  driver,  a  burly,  jovial  fellow,  with  a  quick 
wit,  a  kind  heart,  and  a  fondness  for  hard  cider 
which  degenerated  in  time  into  a  liking  for  the 
whiskey  at  the  Center.  He  was  dead  now,  though 
his  jokes  and  witticisms  were  still  repeated  all 
along  the  road;  and  people  never  tired  of  giving 
instances  of  his  marvellous  memory  —  he  did  shop 
ping  in  the  Center  for  all  the  farmers'  wives  along 
his  circuit,  and  prided  himself  on  never  forgetting 
an  errand  nor  making  a  mistake  in  change  —  and 
of  the  rare  yarns  with  which  this  accomplished 
liar  was  said  to  favor  strangers.  His  successor 
was  a  lanky,  taciturn  young  farmer,  a  hard  driver 
—  beginning  in  his  turn,  too,  to  drink  down  at  the 
Center,  but  never  missing  a  train  nor  a  trip. 

In  July  and  August  he  brought  a  good  many 
visitors  up  to  Broughton  in  the  afternoon  stage, 
and  most  of  them  went  to  the  hotel.  The 
Broughton  House  had  once  been  famous  through 
all  that  section  of  country  as  "  Trumbull's,"  and 
its  trout  for  fishing-parties,  its  oyster-suppers  and 
country  dances  in  the  winter  for  sleighing-parties, 
were  unrivalled.  What  fish  stories  had  been  told, 
first  and  last,  around  the  huge  fireplace  in  the  office ! 
How  many  couples  had  thumbed  the  photograph 
albums  in  the  musty  little  parlor,  while  waiting 
for  the  dining-room  to  be  thrown  open  for  the  hot 


THE  BROUGHTON  HOUSE.  29 

supper  that  followed  the  sleigh-ride,  or  while  the 
tables  were  being  cleared  away  for  dancing ! 

Bill  Tmmbull  was  the  most  obliging  of  hosts, 
though  he  performed  his  active  duties  mainly  by 
proxy,  and  sat  in  the  office  in  his  big  wooden  chair, 
neatly  cushioned  with  a  bit  of  rag  carpet,  or  else 
out  on  the  piazza,  while  his  wife  managed  things. 
Poor  Mrs.  Bill  Trumbull  !  Even  the  reputation 
of  being  a  "  capable  woman,"  which  was  cheerfully 
accorded  her  by  even  the  most  hard-working  and 
critical  farmers'  wives  in  Broughton,  was  hardly  a 
fit  compensation  for  her  life  of  toil,  though  it  was 
all  the  visible  compensation  she  had. 

"  Wai,  I  guess  Mis'  TrumbuU'll  see  to  you,"  was 
her  husband's  invariable  answer  to  those  who  came 
with  produce  to  sell,  or  to  those  who  wanted  rooms 
or  dinners ;  then  he  would  shift  his  legs  a  little, 
and  fixing  his  blue  eyes  upon  the  questioner,  he 
would  say,  "  Nice  morning,"  or,  "  Quite  a  spell  of 
rainy  weather,"  in  the  softest,  most  winning  voice, 
with  such  good-fellowship  in  it  that  most  persons 
dropped  at  once  into  a  chair  and  began  to  talk, 
responding  thus  to  an  unmistakable  appeal.  In 
short,  Bill  Trumbull  was  lazy, — incorrigibly,  hope 
lessly,  shamelessly  lazy,  —  as  only  that  man  can  be 
who  grows  up  among  thriving,  pushing  New  Eng- 
landers,  and  instead  of  catching  some  of  their  am 
bitious  spirit,  is  driven  to  the  opposite  extreme. 
Yet  everybody  liked  him:  he  would  leave  his 
chair  and  walk  to  the  farthest  end  of  the  village 


30  THE  BEOUGHTON  HOUSE. 

to  prescribe  for  a  sick  cow  — he  was  prouder  of 
his  skill  as  a  cow-doctor  than  of  anything  else 
except  "  Mis'  Trumbull " ;  his  blonde,  handsome 
face  with  its  long  yellow  beard  was  the  first  one 
that  the  village  babies  used  to  learn;  he  was  an 
almost  infallible  prophet  in  politics  and  had  twice 
been  sent  to  the  Legislature.  No  one  ever  came  to 
"  Trumbull's  "  without  feeling  at  home  as  soon  as 
he  arrived,  and  being  sorry  when  the  time  came 
to  go. 

It  was  a  great  shock  to  the  community  —  as  the 
county  paper  expressed  it  —  when  Mrs.  Bill  Trum 
bull  sickened  and  died.  The  cause  of  her  illness 
remained  something  of  a  mystery.  Some  thought 
it  was  nothing  but  "  malary,"  others  that  it  was  "  a 
kind  o'  run  of  low  fever  " ;  there  were  a  few  who 
were  sure  she  must  have  had  a  cancer ;  all  agreed 
that  she  had  "  looked  sickly  "  for  some  weeks,  that 
she  had  grown  thin ;  a  few  of  the  more  observing  ones 
had  noticed  that  her  voice  had  become  querulous 
and  sharp,  and  that  she  had  complained  as  never 
once  before  of  being  "  driven."  But  gradually  the 
interest  in  her  malady  became  absorbed  in  the  more 
engrossing  question,  whether  the  sad  occurrence 
would  make  Bill  Trumbull  "  step  'round."  Upon 
this  point  opinion  was  divided  even  among  those 
who  knew  him  best,  if  indeed  it  could  be  said  of 
such  a  public  character  that  there  were  any  who 
knew  him  best.  The  problem,  however,  did  not 
long  remain  unsolved ;  human  nature  vindicated 


THE  BROUGHTON  HOUSE.  31 

its  impugned  consistency ;  Bill  Trumbull  did  not 
"  step  'round."  He  seemed  dazed  for  a  while. 
When  matters  were  referred  to  him  for  decision,  he 
began  more  than  once  his  old  reply,  "  guess  Mis' 
Trumbull'll  see  to  that "  ;  then  recollected  himself, 
while  a  vague,  hurt  look  came  into  his  blue  eyes, 
and  answered  by  some  indefinite  conjecture.  The 
hotel  had  long  been  mortgaged,  and  all  Mrs. 
Trumbull's  efforts  had  not  been  successful  in  clear 
ing  it  of  the  encumbrance.  The  crisis  came  rap 
idly  now.  In  the  autumn  "  Trumbull's  "  was  sold 
at  auction,  and  was  bought  in  by  a  man  from  the 
Center. 

The  new  owner's  experience  in  keeping  a  hotel 
was  not  large,  but  he  had  been  the  proprietor  of 
the  railroad  restaurant  at  the  Center,  and  brought 
with  him  an  air  of  enterprise  and  a  familiarity 
with  the  ways  of  the  great  world  that  made  an  im 
pression  upon  Broughton.  He  was  a  small,  black- 
eyed,  restless  Welshman,  who  professed  great  faith 
in  the  future  of  Broughton  as  a  summer  resort,  and 
began  at  once  to  talk  "  improvements  "  to  the  regu 
lar  hangers-on  at  the  office.  All  that  winter  he  was 
busy  with  his  schemes,  and  before  the  roads  were 
fairly  settled  in  April,  teams  from  the  Center  began 
to  haul  lumber  for  "repairing"  the  hotel.  The 
building,  though  fifty  years  old,  was  in  perfect 
preservation;  a  solid  two-story  structure,  with  a 
basement  in  the  rear,  which  was  made  necessary 
by  the  rapid  falling  off  of  the  land  from  the  street 


32  THE  BROUGHTON  HOUSE. 

level,  and  which  was  used  as  a  kitchen  in  summer. 
On  the  right,  as  one  entered,  was  the  big  square 
office ;  the  parlor  and  hall  filled  the  remainder  of 
the  front,  while  behind  was  the  long  dining-room 
and  a  diminutive  winter  kitchen. 

The  Welshman's  first  wish  was  to  secure  a  more 
imposing  exterior.  He  thereupon  erected  a  two- 
story  extension  upon  the  front,  tearing  down  the 
west  wall  of  the  parlor  and  dining-room  to  connect 
them  with  the  addition.  On  the  ground  floor, 
beyond  the  parlor,  he  put  in  a  reading-room  or 
smoking-room,  with  a  hardwood  floor  and  stained 
pine  mouldings.  Behind  the  reading-room,  in  the 
rear  of  the  new  part,  he  built  a  couple  of  bath 
rooms.  The  remainder  of  the  extension,  above  and 
below,  was  devoted  to  bedrooms,  separated  by  the 
thinnest  of  partitions,  and  reached  by  a  long  hall 
down  the  middle  of  each  story,  lighted  only  by  a 
window  at  the  end.  A  broad  piazza  was  erected 
along  the  whole  front,  including  the  old  part,  and 
around  the  flat  roof  of  the  piazza  there  was  some 
talk  of  having  a  railing,  so  that  the  rooms  on  the 
second  floor  might  have  a  piazza  of  their  own,  but 
this  was  finally  deferred  until  another  season.  The 
whole  hotel  was  now  painted  a  bright  yellow,  with 
muddy  brown  trimming.  "  Trumbull's,"  like  most 
of  the  other  houses  in  the  village,  had  been  white, 
with  green  blinds.  But  the  Welshman  preferred 
yellow,  as  being  more  modern;  at  the  hardware 
store  where  he  had  bought  his  prepared  paint  they 


THE  BROUGHTON  HOUSE.  33 

told  him  that  they  sold  three  pounds  of  yellow  to 
one  of  white,  nowadays. 

Then  came  the  question  of  naming  the  hotel. 
The  proprietor's  first  instinct  was  to  name  it  after 
himself,  "  The  Evans  House.*'  He  hesitated,  how 
ever,  and  got  some  one  to  sound  Bill  Trumbull  as 
to  the  advisability  of  the  name. 

Trumbull  had  taken  up  his  abode  with  a  married 
daughter,  across  the  street,  but  spent  most  of  his 
waking  hours  at  the  hotel,  where  his  chair  still 
stood  in  the  office  as  of  old.  "  The  Evans  House?" 
he  repeated,  when  his  opinion  was  privately  asked. 
"  Wai,  I  dunno  :  it  might  be  good.  '  Trumbull's,' 
now ;  why,  everybody  round  here  knows  who  I  am. 
But  s'pose  a  man  was  to  come  along  here  and  ask 
who  Evans  was.  You'd  have  to  say,  '  he's  a  feller 
from  the  Center  who  used  to  keep  a  restaurant 
down  there ' ;  and  I  s'pose,"  he  added  reflectively, 
"  that  most  folks'd  say  he  kep  a  darn  poor  one." 
This  sentiment  having  been  duly  reported  to  Evans, 
he  changed  his  mind  about  the  name.  Then  he 
thought  of  calling  it  "  The  Mansion  House,"  but 
that  was  on  the  whole  too  common.  "  The  Brough- 
ton  Arms  "  suggested  itself  to  him  as  being  eupho 
nious  and  as  having  a  sort  of  flavor  of  the  old 
country  about  it  which  might  attract  summer  board 
ers.  But  here  again  he  was  not  positive  enough 
in  his  conviction  to  decide  without  consultation, 
and  the  ignorance  that  prevailed  in  the  village 
about  the  appropriateness  of  the  "  Arms  "  part  of 


34  THE  BEOUGHTON  HOUSE. 

his  idea  was  discouraging.  Finally  he  hit  upon 
"The  Broughton  House."  If  it  was  not  partic 
ularly  original,  it  was  at  least  unobjectionable. 

The  farmers  looked  curiously  at  the  staring  sign 
in  gilt  letters  upon  a  black  ground,  the  name  of 
the  printer,  a  Center  man,  in  quite  readable  letters 
in  the  corner.  It  was  in  the  form  of  an  arch,  one 
end  springing  from  the  office  extremity  of  the 
piazza,  and  the  other  supported  by  a  black  post 
sunk  in  the  newly  gravelled  space  in  front  of  the 
hotel. 

"Trumbull's"  had  never  had  any  sign,  nor 
needed  one,  except  the  rusty  square  of  copper  dan 
gling  on  the  office  corner,  which  had  creaked  there 
in  the  wind  ever  since  Andrew  Jackson's  time, 
when  the  house  was  known  simply  as  "  The  Tav 
ern."  But  the  farmers  were  cautious  about  ex 
pressing  any  opinion,  and  had  a  certain  respect  for 
any  man  who  had  money  to  spend. 

It  was  June  before  the  repairs  were  completed. 
Evans  had  planned  to  renovate  the  office,  but  his 
ready  money  was  nearly  exhausted.  He  was  de 
terred  from  it,  too,  by  Mr.  Collins,  who  came  up 
in  May,  as  usual,  for  a  week's  fishing,  and  who 
threatened  never  to  come  again  if  the  old  office 
were  touched.  Evans  disliked  to  lose  an  influential 
patron  at  the  outset ;  and  when  Collins  explained 
to  him  that  the  huge  beams  that  supported  the 
ceiling,  dark  with  fifty  years'  exposure  to  the  air, 
but  sound  to  the  core,  were  actually  fashionable, 


THE  BEOUGHTOy  HOUSE.  35 

and  were  being  put  into  many  modern  hotels,  he 
gave  up  his  proposed  improvements.  The  office 
remained  intact.  On  one  side  was  the  yellow- 
painted  counter  from  behind  which,  in  the  old  days, 
glasses  of  flip  had  been  served  to  guests  and  to 
the  village  worthies.  On  the  walls,  which  were 
covered  with  a  closely  figured  paper,  variegated  by 
vertical  stripes  of  blue,  hung  a  map  of  the  county 
roads,  a  map  of  the  United  States  in  1840,  and  a  por 
trait  of  Daniel  Webster,  lithographic  par  Julien,  rep 
resenting  the  statesman  clad  in  his  blue  coat  with 

O 

velvet  collar  and  black  stock.  Every  one  in  the 
village  knew  that  face,  with  the  drooping  mouth, 
sunken  cheeks,  domelike  forehead,  and  steady,  wist 
ful  eyes  under  the  shadow  of  the  gloomy  brows. 
Tacked  near  it  was  a  fly-specked  woodcut  of  James 
G.  Elaine.  The  fireplace  was  a  noble  one,  with 
a  wide  hearthstone  of  marble,  tipped  more  or  less 
into  uneven  levels,  but  uncracked  by  the  huge  fires 
of  half  a  century.  The  sides  were  adorned  with 
marble  facings,  and  it  was  surmounted  by  an  oak 
mantel-piece.  On  one  side  of  the  latter,  at  dis 
tances  ranging  from  eleven  to  sixteen  inches  from 
the  end,  were  numerous  notches,  recording  the 
length  of  captured  trout,  the  longest  being  the 
memorial  of  a  famous  four-pounder  caught  in  the 
Johnson  brook  away  back  in  the  sixties. 

Along  the  brown,  rough-hewn  beams  that  trav 
ersed  the  ceiling  were  hooks,  which  before  the  days 
of  jointed  rods  had  been  used  for  hanging  fish-poles. 


36  THE  BEOUGHTON  HOUSE. 

There,  too,  hung  a  musket  which  Bill  Trumbull's 
grandfather  had  brought  back  from  the  campaign 
along  the  Hudson  in  1777,  and  a  rusty  cavalry 
sabre  which  Trumbull's  younger  brother  swung  in 
his  right  hand  when  he  rode  to  his  death  .in  a 
nameless  village  of  Virginia.  No  one  had  had  the 
heart  to  take  them  down.  High  in  one  corner  was 
nailed  a  crotch  of  a  tree,  on  which  were  a  stuffed 
wild  cat  and  a  Cooper's  hawk,  both  of  them  rather 
the  worse  for  time  and  moths.  Everything  in  the 
office,  it  will  be  seen,  had  an  air  of  the  past  —  a  con 
servative,  tranquillizing  quality.  The  very  chairs 
around  the  fireplace  were  hospitable ;  solid,  iron- 
clamped  ones  as  they  were,  strong  enough  to  tip 
back  in,  —  the  comfort  of  two  generations  of  tired 
fishermen,  chilled  travellers,  and  genial  country 
loafers.  What  stories  they  had  heard ! 

Notwithstanding  its  new  management  and  fresh 
paint,  the  first  season  of  the  Broughton  House  was 
not  particularly  successful.  June  and  July  were  un 
usually  cold  and  wet,  and  few  people  left  the  cities. 
August  was  a  better  month,  but  none  of  Evans's 
guests  stayed  so  long  as  he  had  hoped  for,  and 
some  of  them  openly  deserted  him  on  finding  that 
some  of  the  farmers  were  willing  to  take  boarders. 
He  could  not  understand  this.  There  was  Calvin 
Johnson's,  for  instance,  a  big  old-fashioned  farm 
house,  where  the  folks  were  respectable  enough  — 
even  the  village  school-teacher  "hayed  it"  there 
through  the  summer  for  his  board ;  but  there  were 


THE  BROUGHTON  HOUSE.  37 

no  modern  conveniences  there,  not  even  a  chance 
to  hire  teams.  Why  should  any  one  prefer  John 
son's  to  the  Broughton  House  ? 

In  vain  did  Evans  arrange,  upon  his  long  piazza, 
lines  of  cane-bottomed  rocking-chairs,  painted  an 
attractive  red.  In  vain  did  he  furnish  the  reading- 
room  with  files  of  the  county  papers,  together  with 
the  Springfield  Republican*  Harpers  Weekly,  and 
the  Semi-Weekly  Tribune.  In  vain  did  he  induce 
the  stage-driver  to  attach  to  his  dashboard  a  big 
placard,  "  To  the  Broughton  House,"  as  he  drove 
through  the  Center.  The  harvest  of  boarders  did 
not  ripen.  A  few  people  who  had  formerly  spent 
a  while  in  August  at  "  Trumbull's,"  came  as  usual ; 
but  even  these  spoke  disrespectfully  of  his  cher 
ished  improvements,  and  one  told  him  that  his 
plumbing  was  a  crime.  The  men  preferred  the 
office  to  the  reading-room  ;  the  ladies  kept  asking- 
after  the  old  waitresses  in  the  dininsr-room,  —  neat 

O 

farmers'  daughters  from  the  neighborhood,  whom 
Evans  had  replaced,  for  the  most  part,  with  Irish 
help  from  the  Center ;  and  both  men  and  women 
seemed  to  pay  more  attention  to  Bill  Trumbull 
than  they  did  to  Evans  himself. 

When  the  season  closed,  the  Welshman  was  dis 
mayed.  He  had  not  made  two  per  cent  upon  his 
investment.  All  the  autumn  he  fumed.  He  began 
to  suspect  that  Broughton  people  distrusted  him 
as  a  newcomer.  Perhaps  the  temperance  folk  ob 
jected  to  the  reputation  which  his  restaurant  at  the 


88  THE  BKOUGHTON  HOUSE. 

Center  had  enjoyed.  He  resolved  therefore  to  iden 
tify  himself  more  thoroughly  than  ever  with  the 
town,  as  his  fortune  depended  upon  the  popularity 
of  the  hotel.  He  became  a  regular  church-goer, 
much  to  the  private  delectation  of  his  cook  and 
stable-boy.  There  was  a  new  minister  in  Broughton 
that  winter,  a  clear-voiced,  straightforward,  likable 
young  man,  —  Arthur  Ellerton.  The  sermons  were 
not  long,  and  Evans  found  himself  concurring  with 
the  prevailing  opinion  that  the  minister  was  a 
"smart  one."  He  felt,  too,  that  he  was  weekly 
growing  more  respectable,  in  his  own  eyes  and  in 
the  eyes  of  Broughton.  He  was  unmarried ;  other 
wise  he  would  have  undoubtedly  taken  a  pew. 
When  the  time  came  for  the  town-meeting  in 
March,  Evans  was  active  in  distributing  "no 
license "  votes,  and  was  fluent  in  his  announce 
ment  of  his  purpose  to  keep  a  strictly  temperance 
house.  So  far,  so  good ;  but  he  was  frightened  at 
the  idea  of  having  another  summer  like  the  previ 
ous  one. 

In  May,  Collins  arrived ;  but  the  spring  came  late, 
just  as  it  had  done  the  year  before,  and  there  was 
too  much  snow-water  in  the  brooks  for  successful 
sport.  Collins  waited  day  after  day,  smoking  tran 
quilly  in  the  office  with  Bill  Trumbull;  but  the 
brooks  were  still  high.  The  woollen  business  was 
dull,  he  said ;  the  mills  were  doing  almost  nothing, 
and  he  might  as  well  be  in  one  place  as  another. 
Then  came  some  business  letters,  a  couple  of 


THE  BROUGHTON  HOUSE.  39 

telegrams  sent  up  from  the  Center  by  telephone, 
and  the  manufacturer  went  off  hastily,  to  return 
three  days  later  with  a  case  of  new  rods  and  a 
trunk.  He  explained  to  Evans  and  Trumbull, 
laconically,  that  there  had  been  a  cut-down  at  the 
mills,  then  an  ensuing  strike  ;  that,  as  some  repairs 
of  machinery  were  necessary  and  the  market  was 
flat,  the  mills  would  not  be  started  again  until 
fall. 

"So  I  may  stay  here  all  summer,"  he  added; 
*'  and  if  I  do,  Bill,  I  won't  go  back  without  that 
big  fellow  down  in  the  Hollow.  I  saw  him  twice 
last  year,  and  he's  a  three-pounder  if  he's  an 
ounce." 

Evans  slid  out  of  the  office,  stroking  his  black, 
pointed  beard  in  nervous  delight,  his  keen  eyes 
snapping  at  the  prospect  of  having  the  manufac 
turer  as  a  guest  for  two  or  three  months.  If  he 
could  only  get  a  few  others  for  permanent  boarders, 
he  could  trust  to  a  hot  summer  and  his  improve 
ments  of  the  year  before  —  even  if  some  of  the  old 
patrons  did  not  seem  to  like  them  —  to  attract 
"  transients  "  enough  to  carry  him  through.  His 
mind  reverted,  as  it  had  done  often  before,  to  the 
school-teacher.  As  a  permanent  boarder,  John 
Sonderby  would  add  character  to  the  house. 

The  Welshman  learned,  by  some  inquiry,  that 
Sonderby  did  not  expect  to  work  at  Johnson's,  as 
he  had  done  the  previous  summer,  Johnson  having 
now  hired  his  men  by  the  year ;  further,  that  Son- 


40  THE  BROUGHTON  HOUSE. 

derby  was  undecided  about  spending  the  vacation 
in  Broughton,  but  that  as  he  had  no  home  of  his 
own,  it  was  very  possible  that  he  might  do  so, 
especially  as  there  was  a  chance  of  his  remaining 
in  the  village  through  another  winter.  Evans  lost 
no  time  in  offering  him  room  and  board  at  such 
a  low  figure  that  the  school-teacher  packed  up  his 
few  effects,  left  his  uncomfortable  room  near  the 
academy,  and  found  himself  by  the  middle  of  June 
quartered  at  the  Broughton  House.  The  proprietor 
had  offered  him  any  room  he  liked,  and  was  evi 
dently  disappointed  at  Sonderby's  taste  when  the 
latter  chose  one  of  the  old  rooms  over  the  office, 
adjoining  the  one  occupied  by  Mr.  Collins,  instead 
of  going  into  the  extension,  and  taking  a  room 
newly  fitted  and  papered.  But  Evans  did  not  feel 
sufficiently  familiar  with  the  academy  teacher  to 
remonstrate,  and  after  all,  it  only  left  one  more 
of  the  new  rooms  for  somebody  else. 

Collins  and  Sonderby  had  sat  beside  each  other 
at  table  for  a  week  or  two,  and  in  the  feeling  of 
permanency  which  arises  from  seeing  more  transient 
guests  come  and  go,  were  beginning  to  get  well 
acquainted.  Neither  was  much  of  a  talker,  but 
they  made  some  progress.  Collins  was  ten  years 
the  elder,  and  liked  the  younger  man's  ways.  One 
morning  at  breakfast  as  Evans  was  passing  through 
the  dining-room  and  stopped  for  a  moment  at  the 
head  of  the  table  where  they  sat,  to  chat  with 
them,  —  Evans  being  strongly  impressed  with  a 


THE  BROUGHTON  HOUSE.  41 

hotel-keeper's  duty  to  cultivate  acquaintance  with 
his  patrons,  —  Collins  gave  him  a  brilliant  idea. 

"If  you  like  to  have  two  b  regulars,'  the  manu 
facturer  was  saying  in  his  deep  voice,  now  slightly 
quizzical  in  its  inflections,  "  why  don't  you  get  some 
more  of  them  ?  There  is  Bill  Trumbull ;  he  would 
make  a  good  one.  Why  do  you  let  him  go  across 
the  street  to  eat  and  sleep  ?  Or  what's  the  matter 
with  the  Floyds  ?  Why  can't  you  get  them  to 
board  here?" 

Evans  looked  sharply  at  him.  "  Perhaps  so,  Mr. 
Collins,"  he  laughed.  He  was  somewhat  afraid  of 
Collins,  and  never  knew  just  how  to  take  him. 

"  Of  course  you  can,"  Collins  went  on,  his  hand 
some  dark  face  breaking  into  an  ironical  smile. 
"  They  have  been  here  three  days,  and  Floyd  is 
tired  of  housekeeping  already  "  —  and  he  turned  his 
attention  to  his  steak  again.  Evans  passed  on, 
meditatively. 

At  dinner-time  the  Floyds  were  there.  Sonderby 
came  a  few  minutes  late,  having  spent  the  morning 
over  the  physical  apparatus  in  the  deserted,  dusty 
rooms  of  the  academy. 

He  found  Collins  listening  to  a  stoop-shouldered 
fellow  of  twenty-six  or  seven,  who  sat  opposite  him ; 
a  carelessly  dressed  man,  with  his  flannel  shirt  un 
buttoned  at  the  throat,  though  held  in  place  by  a 
soiled  pink  tie.  Sonderby  scarcely  glanced  at 
him,  but  the  impression  was  somehow  unpleasing. 
Opposite  the  school-teacher  was  the  artist's  wife, 


42  THE  BEOUGHTON  HOUSE. 

a  slender  woman,  in  a  close-fitting  black  jersey,  her 
face  singularly  destitute  of  color,  her  dark  hair 
drawn  back  from  her  forehead  and  knotted  behind. 
She  looked  up  as  Sonderby  seated  himself  and 
bowed  timidly.  She  had  big,  shy  eyes.  Sonderby 
remembered  that  he  had  been  introduced  to  her  the 
year  before.  As  he  murmured  something  about 
having  met  her,  her  husband  checked  himself  in 
his  remarks  to  Collins  and  eyed  the  newcomer. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  exclaimed  Collins;  "I 
thought  you  knew  each  other.  Mr.  Floyd,  Mr. 
Sonderby." 

The  men  bowed. 

"  You  are  the  school-teacher,  I  believe  ?  "  said 
Floyd.  The  tone  was  just  a  trifle  patronizing. 

"  Yes,"  replied  Sonderb}^.  His  manner  was  not 
communicative. 

"  You  are  staying  here  in  Broughton  this  sum 
mer?"  the  artist  continued. 

"  Yes." 

Floyd  looked  at  him  curiously  an  instant,  then 
took  up  the  dropped  thread  of  his  talk  to  Collins. 

"  You  see,"  he  went  on,  gesticulating  with  a  long 
forefinger  slightly  dirtied  with  Roman  ochre,  "  my 
theory  of  landscape  is  just  this :  — 

Sonderby  did  not  feel  particularly  interested, 
and  gave  his  attention  to  the  soup.  He  exchanged 
some  commonplaces  after  a  little  with  Mrs.  Floyd, 
and  when  she  happened  to  say  that  she  was  a  na 
tive  of  Broughton,  —  he  had  already  noticed  that 


THE  BEOUGHTOX  HOUSE.  43 

she  used  Broughton  locutions  in  her  conversation,  — 
and  had  attended  the  academy  in  her  girlhood,  he 
remembered  what  he  had  heard  about  her.  It  was 
she  whose  aunts  had  lived  in  the  low,  unpainted 
cottage  next  to  the  hotel,  and  the  removal  of  one  of 
them  and  the  death  of  the  other  in  the  preceding 
autumn  had  brought  her  into  possession  of  the  prop 
erty.  She  and  her  husband  had  been  in  Brough 
ton  the  summer  before,  and  had  stayed  with  one 
of  the  aunts,  but  this  season,  as  Collins  had  said  at 
the  breakfast  table,  the  Floyds  had  expected  to 
keep  house  in  the  cottage  themselves. 

kt  I  don't  much  care,"  she  said  to  Sonderby,  speak 
ing  of  the  sudden  change  in  their  plans.  "  I'm 
not  very  fond  of  housekeeping.  But  my  husband 
thought  we  should  like  it  better  here."' 

Evans  had,  in  fact,  proposed  to  board  them  at 
such  a  ridiculously  low  rate,  that  they  had  not  hes 
itated  a  moment  in  coming. 

"  I  hope  you  will  not  be  disappointed,''  Sonderby 
said  politely.  "  How  do  you  fancy  the  changes  in 
the  hotel?  It  must  seem  strange  to  you  if  you 
were  brought  up  next  door  and  have  always 
known  it  as  it  used  to  be.'' 

She  was  about  to  reply,  when  she  noticed  the 
Welshman  standing  in  the  kitchen  door  near  by, 
watching  his  four  "  regulars  ''  with  intense  satisfac 
tion. 

"  Hush,"  she  exclaimed,  with  a  warning  smile, 
so  bright  and  confidential  that  Sonderby  found 


44  THE  BEOUGHTON  HOUSE. 

himself  instantly  attracted  to  her.  They  changed 
the  subject. 

After  that  Sonderby  got  on  very  well  with  her. 
She  had  a  soft  voice,  lower  in  pitch  than  the  voices 
of  most  New  England  women,  and  at  times  almost 
indistinct.  She  spoke  with  a  shy  swiftness,  when 
she  spoke  at  all,  and  the  teacher  had  difficulty  in 
catching  all  she  said. 

During  the  whole  dinner  hour  Mr.  Floyd  talked 
incessantly,  in  a  self-conscious,  preternaturally 
weighty  fashion,  which  Collins,  who  seemed  to  know 
him  pretty  well,  did  not  take  with  entire  serious 
ness.  Indeed,  it  seemed  to  Sonderby  that  Collins  was 
slyly  bantering  the  artist  and  drawing  him  out, 
without  the  latter  s  suspecting  it.  Floyd  had  an 
easily  remembered  face,  and  Sonderby  recollected 
that  he  had  taken  a  dislike  to  it  a  year  before.  It 
was  not  that  Floyd  was  ugly,  — though,  indeed,  with 
his  high  cheek-bones,  flat  cheeks,  a  nose  broken 
out  of  line  by  some  accident  in  boyhood,  thin  light 
hair,  growing  far  back  on  his  square  forehead, 
weak-looking  eyes,  and  a  bad  mouth,  he  could 
scarcely  be  called  handsome.  Sonderby  never  no 
ticed  such  things  in  detail,  at  least  in  a  man.  Yet 
he  felt  there  was  a  kind  of  pretence  in  the  artist's 
expression,  a  lack  of  real  dignity  or  worth  in  the 
man's  bearing.  But  this,  after  all,  was  only  the 
impression  of  the  moment. 

When  the  four  came  out  of  the  dining-room  to 
gether,  they  stood  for  a  moment  in  the  parlor,  aim- 


THE  BEOUGHTON  HOUSE.  45 

lessly.  The  Floyds  seemed  to  have  no  idea  of 
returning  to  the  cottage. 

"  We  might  sit  on  the  piazza  for  a  while,"  sug 
gested  Collins,  resigning  mentally  his  customary 
after-dinner  smoke  with  Trumbull  in  the  office. 
"It  would  rejoice  the  heart  of  Evans,  anyway," 
he  added ;  "  his  chairs  haven't  been  very  popular." 

"  All  right,"  said  Floyd ;  they  strolled  out  upon 
the  broad  piazza,  and  Collins  drew  some  of  the 
big  red  chairs  together  into  a  group  in  front  of  the 
reading-room.  Floyd  pulled  out  his  cigarette-case, 
and  offered  it  to  Sonderby. 

"Thank  }xm  ;  I  don't  smoke,"  said  Sonderby,  re 
gretting,  after  all,  that  he  had  to  refuse  the  first 
friendly  overture  the  artist  made  him. 

"Do  you  object  to  my  pipe?"  asked  Collins, 
turning  to  Mrs.  Floyd. 

"  Oh,  Phenie  don't  care,"  interrupted  Floyd. 
"She's  used  to  it.  Aren't  you,  Phenie?" 

"  I  should  think  I  ought  to  be,"  was  the  answer. 

Sonderby  wondered  why  her  husband  called  her 
"  Phenie,"  and  tried  to  guess  from  it  what  must  be 
her  name. 

A  light  June  breeze  was  blowing  down  the  pi 
azza,  and  Collins  moved  his  chair  so  that  the  smoke 
from  his  briarwood  might  not  be  carried  into  Mrs. 
Floyd's  face.  She  thanked  him  as  if  somewhat 
surprised  at  his  thoughtfulness.  Sonderby's  chair 
was  nearest  hers,  after  this  change  of  position  on 
Collins's  part.  Floyd  rocked  vigorously  a  few 


46  THE  BEOUGIITON  HOUSE. 

moments,  then  got  up  and  balanced  himself  along 
the  flat  railing  of  the  piazza,  resting  his  head 
against  the  post  and  crossing  his  feet  upon  the  rail, 
while  he  blew  idle  rings  of  smoke  and  watched  them 
drift  and  break. 

The  four  were  still  in  their  relative  position  a 
half-hour  later.  Evans  regarded  them  silently 
from  the  office  door,  in  triumph.  He  had  waited 
so  long  to  see  those  chairs  filled,  and  the  new 
piazza  appreciated.  He  only  hoped  that  in  the 
growing  familiarity  of  his  guests,  the  fact  would 
not  leak  out  that  he  was  charging  them  three 
different  prices  for  board.  But  in  the  glow  of 
that  exultant  moment  he  could  have  explained 
anything  satisfactorily.  As  he  turned  away  and 
passed  through  the  office  on  the  way  to  the  kitchen, 
he  allowed  himself,  for  the  first  time  since  he  had 
taken  the  hotel,  to  address  a  disrespectful  remark 
to  Bill  Trumbull. 

It  never  rains  but  it  pours.  That  afternoon  the 
stage  deposited  a  whole  family  at  the  hotel.  As 
Evans  received  them,  and  gave  sharp  directions  to 
the  driver  and  the  stable-boy  about  the  disposition 
of  the  trunks,  he  was  a  happy  man.  If  there  was 
any  cloud  in  his  sky,  it  was  that  his  regular  board 
ers  were  no  longer  sitting  upon  the  piazza,  when 
the  stage  rattled  up  to  it.  That  would  have  given 
such  an  air  of  life  to  the  hotel.  But  it  mattered 
little :  and  the  mail  brought  four  or  five  inquiries 
about  rooms  for  July  and  August.  At  last !  How 


THE  BROUGHTON  HOUSE.  47 

often  Evans  had  imagined  himself  receiving  those 
letters ! 

By  the  end  of  June  the  Broughton  House  was 
half  full.  Evans  firmly  believed  that  the  luck 
had  been  brought  him  by  the  quartette  of  "  regu 
lars."  Their  mutual  acquaintance  seemed  to  pro 
gress  steadily:  every  day,  after  dinner,  they  sat 
together  either  on  the  piazza  or  under  the  trees  in 
front  of  the  cottage  next  door ;  in  the  morning  they 
often  spent  hours  watching  Floyd  sketch,  though 
the  artist  sometimes  left  his  work  altogether  for  a 
fishing-jaunt  with  Collins.  The  second  Sunday 
after  the  Floyds  came,  Collins,  in  some  freak,  per 
suaded  them  to  go  to  the  Congregational  church, 
making  Sonderby  join  the  party ;  and  the  four  had 
listened,  decorously  enough,  to  Arthur  Ellerton's 
sermon,  and  had  been  scrutinized  gravely  by  Arthur 
Ellerton's  wife.  But  they  were  to  be  seen  to 
gether  most  regularly  in  the  evening,  after  supper, 
when  they  took  the  curious  old  mahogany  card- 
table  from  the  parlor,  and  placing  it  upon  the 
piazza  outside,  sat  down  to  play  whist.  When  it 
became  dark,  they  had  the  big  reflector  lighted 
over  their  heads ;  and  if  it  grew  cool,  as  it  was 
likely  to  do,  even  in  these  July  evenings  up  among 
the  hills,  they  retreated  to  the  stuffy  little  parlor, 
and  played  on,  till  long  after  the  other  guests  had 
retired. 

The  Saturday  evening  when  Sonderby  was  in 
vited  to  take  tea  at  the  parsonage  was  the  first 


48  THE  BROUGHTON  HOUSE. 

time  in  three  weeks  that  the  whist  had  been  broken 
in  upon.  Collins  and  the  Floyds  had  sat  a  long 
time  upon  the  piazza  that  night,  waiting  for  him, 
when  Mrs.  Floyd  thought  she  caught  a  glimpse  of 
the  school-teacher  among  the  elm-tree  shadows  on 
the  other  side  of  the  street,  and  it  was  Collins's 
mellow  "Hullo"  that  called  him  from  the  dark 
ness  and  silence  of  the  deserted  street,  across  to 
the  light  and  the  murmur  of  voices  on  the  Brough- 
ton  House  piazza. 


III. 

Two  or  three  clays  after  that  Saturday  evening, 
Floyd  was  pacing  up  and  down  in  the  sitting-room 
of  the  cottage.  One  hand  was  thrust  deep  into 
his  trousers  pocket ;  the  other  held  a  crumpled  let 
ter.  In  a  low  rocking-chair  by  one  of  the  windows 
sat  his  wife,  leaning  back  so  that  her  head  rested 
upon  the  calico  cushion,  and  her  throat  showed 
white.  From  moment  to  moment  she  pushed  her 
foot  against  the  iron  framework  of  a  dust-covered 
sewing-machine  in  front  of  her,  to  rock  her  chair. 
Her  hands  were  lying  in  her  lap,  the  fingers  clasped, 
and  palms  turned  from  her  in  a  way  that  brought 
into  relief  every  line  of  her  slender  arms. 

Her  dark  eyes  were  fixed  now  on  the  ceiling, 
and  now  on  the  restless  form  of  her  husband. 
Altogether  it  was  a  graceful,  piquant  figure,  with 
manifest  nervous  power ;  but  just  now  she  was  cool, 
provokingly  cool. 

"  Well  ?  "  she  said,  in  her  light  voice,  with,  the 
slightest  upward  inflection. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  making  with  the 
hand  that  held  the  letter  a  curiously  vague,  impo 
tent  gesture. 

44 Well,  Billy?"  she  repeated. 

49 


50  THE  BROUGHTON  HOUSE. 

He  took  another  turn  before  replying.  "  What's 
the  use  ?  "  he  muttered.  "  You  don't  understand 
me  ;  you  don't  even  try." 

"  Don't  be  too  sure,  Billy." 

"No  —  you,  nor  none  of  you,"  he  cried,  stopping 
in  his  walk.  "  You  don't  know  what  an  artist  is  ; 
you  can't  appreciate  the  artistic  temperament." 

"  I  have  had  nearly  three  years  of  it,"  was  her 
answer.  "  I  should  think  I  ought  to  know  some 
thing  about  it  by  this  time."  She  smiled  faintly, 
showing  a  glimpse  of  her  fine  teeth,  but  the  smile 
was  hard. 

"  Why  can't  you  make  allowances,  then  ?  "  He 
hesitated,  seeing  that  she  had  spoken  ironically. 

"Allowances?"  she  repeated,  in  an  indifferent 
tone. 

"  Yes,"  he  cried.  "  You  seem  to  think  that  it 
makes  no  difference  where  I  am  or  what  I  see. 
Can't  you  understand  that  a  man  has  got  to  have 
inspiration  from  something  ?  What  is  there  in  this 
dusty  little  country  town  ?  How  can  a  man  paint 
here  ?  Who  appreciates  him  ?  Who  cares  any 
thing  about  art  ?  How  do  you  expect  me  to  do 
my  best  work  up  in  this  God-forsaken  place  ?  I 
ought  to  be  over  on  the  other  side  again.  I  ought 
not  to  have  come  back  to  America  before  I  was  half 
ready.  Just  think  of  being  over  there  to-day,  — 
over  in  Munich  again,  —  and  then  think  of  being  — 
here." 

As  Floyd  uttered  the  last  word  he  swept  his  eye 


THE  BEOUGHTOy  HOUSE.  51 

over  the  low  room.  Its  uneven  floor  was  covered 
with  a  rag  carpet;  the  hair-cloth  furniture  was 
rickety  and  old-fashioned ;  on  the  walls,  which  were 
papered  with  an  ugly  flowered  design,  there  hung 
in  black  oval  frames,  suspended  by  green  picture- 
cord,  daguerreotypes  of  Mrs.  Floyd's  maiden  aunts, 
Tryphena  and  Tryphosa.  A  carefully  framed  pho 
tograph  of  Mrs.  Floyd  herself,  at  the  age  of  ten, 
hung  under  the  picture  of  Aunt  Tryphena.  There 
was  not  much  else  in  the  room.  Both  windows 
were  wide  open,  but  the  hot  sun  of  the  July  morn 
ing  failed  to  penetrate  the  thick-leaved  lilac  bushes 
planted  close  under  the  eaves  of  the  cottage.  In 
one  of  the  lilacs  a  chipping  sparrow,  frightened 
by  the  sound  of  Floyd's  voice  from  off  her  second 
set  of  eggs,  was  fluttering  anxiously.  Otherwise 
there  was  perfect  stillness,  save  possibly  the  inter 
mittent  creak  of  Mrs.  Floyd's  rocking-chair. 

The  contrast  between  Munich  and  Broughton 
was  evident  enough. 

The  artist  began  to  pace  the  floor  again,  moodily. 

"I'm  sorry  you  don't  like  it  here,  Billy,"  said 
his  wife.  "  You  seemed  quite  fond  of  staying  last 
summer.  Aunt  Tryphena  would  feel  real  bad 
about  it;  she  set  a  good  deal  of  store  by  you,  and 
if  she  had  only  known  you  wouldn't  have  liked 
the  house,  she  might  have  sold  it  and  left  us  the 
money  instead.  But  it  was  all  she  had.  And  it's 
too  late  now,  anyway.  I  was  brought  up  here. 
It's  different  for  me."  She  spoke  slowly,  and  the 


52  THE  BROUGHTON  HOUSE. 

irony  had  all  gone  out  of  her  voice,  leaving  there 
nothing  but  helplessness. 

But  Floyd  was  stung  by  the  reference  to  their 
circumstances.  He  had  scarcely  enough  money  to 
pay  their  board  through  the  summer,  and  the  cot 
tage  had  been  left  to  his  wife,  by  her  aunt's  will. 
The  little  that  they  had  was  hers. 

"  You  are  always  throwing  my  poverty  in  my 
face,"  he  exclaimed.  "  Is  it  my  fault  ?  Is  it  my 
fault  that  Mr.  Watson  —  He  hesitated,  glancing 
at  the  letter  in  his  hand. 

Mrs.  Floyd's  colorless  face  flushed  a  little. 
What  he  had  said  was  grossly  untrue. 

"  You're  not  very  fair,  Billy,"  she  said. 

"  Perhaps  not ;  it's  hard  to  be  fair  when  every 
thing's  against  a  man." 

She  tapped  her  foot  against  the  sewing-machine, 
but  made  no  reply.  What  was  the  use  ? 

"  I've  stood  it  long  enough,"  he  went  on,  in  a 
petulant,  high  voice.  "I  have  no  chance  here. 
There  is  no  sympathy  for  me ;  nothing  but  curiosity. 
It  kills  enthusiasm,  that  does.  Over  there  it  is  all 
different.  An  artist  is  given  his  place,  the  place 
that  belongs  to  him,  the  first  place.  Yes,  I  say ! 
Phenie,  why  can't  you  stop  looking  at  me  that 
way?  You  sit  there  with  those  thick  black  eyes 
of  yours,  as  if  you  were  blaming  me  for  something. 
Haven't  I  done  everything  that  man  can  do  ?  The 
fact  is,  I'm  out  of  my  place  here.  I  have  genius  — 
they  said  so  over  there,  though  not  in  so  many 


THE  BROUGHTON   HOUSE.  53 

words  —  they  never  do  that,  I  know  I've  got 
something  great  in  me.  You  can't  appreciate  me 
—  none  of  yon  can.  It  takes  an  artist  to  sympa 
thize  with  an  artist.  I'm  tired  of  it  all,  and  I'm 
throwing  away  my  chances  too.  It  can't  last  for 
ever —  it  is  too  hard." 

He  closed  melodramatically,  with  the  same  im 
potent  gesture  as  before.  His  wife  watched  him 
with  inscrutable  eyes.  She  had  heard  this  tirade 
so  often  that  she  knew  it  by  heart,  and  could 
have  prompted  him  when  he  stopped  for  rhetorical 
pauses.  But  to  the  captious,  vain  babble  to  which 
she  was  accustomed,  there  was  added  this  morn 
ing  an  excitement  of  manner  and  a  personal  resent 
ment  against  herself  which  were  unusual,  and 
which  she  conjectured  at  once  were  caused  by  the 
letter. 

"What  does  Mr.  Watson  say?"  she  asked,  her 
voice  trembling  in  spite  of  herself.  "  Better  have 
it  out,  Billy:  I  know  he  isn't  fond  of  me." 

Mr.  Watson  was  a  Chicago  broker,  an  elderly 
relative  of  Floyd,  and  his  patron,  so  far  as  that 
personage  can  exist  nowadays.  He  was  the  only 
one  who  believed  in  Floyd's  talent;  he  had  sent 
him  to  Munich,  he  had  discouraged  his  return  to 
America  and  his  marriage. 

"  Come,  Billy,"  she  persisted. 

Brutal  in  his  selfishness  as  Floyd  had  shown 
himself,  he  was  ashamed  to  tell  her  what  she  asked. 
But  he  had  gone  so  far  that  it  would  be  useless  to 


54  THE  BllOUGliTON  HOUSE. 

try  to  hide  from  her  how  matters  stood,  or  at  least, 
it  would  be  useless  soon. 

He  smoothed  out  the  wrinkled  sheet  of  paper 
and  ran  his  eye  over  it  again  until  he  reached  the 
last  paragraph.  Then  he  folded  the  letter  once 
more  so  that  the  closing  sentences  would  be  all 
she  could  read,  and  handed  it  to  her.  She  could 
scarcely  make  out  the  scrawled  business  hand,  but 
the  meaning  of  the  words  was  clear. 

"  Of  course  you  understand  that  if  this  scheme 
works,  it  must  be  as  before.  The  money  you  had 
was  enough  for  you.  It  will  be  enough  for  YOU  this 
time.  You  know  my  ideas  about  that  subject,  al 
ready.  Shall  be  able  to  let  you  know  definitely  by 
another  month." 

Mrs.  Floyd  read  it  twice,  a  faint  color  coming 
into  her  cheeks,  then  fading  out  again.  She  looked 
at  her  husband  suddenly,  but  his  eyes  did  not  meet 
hers.  Then  she  tore  the  letter  in  two  and  tossed 
the  pieces  upon  the  middle  of  the  floor,  at  his  feet. 

"  That's  a  very  nice  letter,  Billy,  and  the  man 
who  wrote  it  seems  to  be  a  very  nice  sort  of  man." 
She  lay  back  in  her  rocking-chair  as  before,  her 
fingers  clasped  again,  her  slipper  touching  the 
sewing-machine . 

He  stooped  sheepishly  to  pick  up  the  pieces ; 
then  put  them  carefully  into  the  pocket  of  his 
sack  coat.  Habitually  moody,  he  yet  failed  to 
understand  the  moods  of  his  wife,  and  he  mistook 
the  bitter  irony  of  her  tone  for  that  cool,  light 


THE  BROUGHTOX  HOUSE.  55 

sarcasm  which  in  New  England  passes  for  humor, 
and  with  which  Mrs.  Floyd  often  savored  her  talk. 

44  You  don't  seem  to  object  to  his  scheme,  Phenie," 
he  laughed,  with  a  nervous  and  pitiable  attempt  at 
jocoseness  himself. 

"Why  should  I?" 

The  terrible  directness  of  her  reply  brought  him 
to  his  senses.  He  stood  looking  hard  at  her,  but 
no  words  reached  his  lips.  Why  should  she,  in 
deed,  object  to  his  leaving  the  country  and  going 
away  from  her  ?  Was  he  so  essential  to  her  ?  This 
question  smote  upon  his  selfishness,  rebukingly,  but 
from  that  selfishness  there  came  the  swift  and 
dangerous  response  :  was  his  wife,  after  all,  essential 
to  him? 

He  had  played  with  the  idea  before ;  it  had 
tempted  him,  teased  him ;  and  now  in  a  moment  it 
rose  before  him,  and  beat  down  his  guard.  Still 
no  words  came  to  him. 

Man  and  wife  were  gazing  in  each  other's  eyes. 
It  was  the  supreme  moment  in  their  married  life. 
All  around  them  was  absolute  stillness,  save  the 
flutter  and  chirp  of  the  sparrow  outside  the  win 
dow. 

"  Billy,"  Mrs.  Floyd  said  slowly,  "  perhaps  it  was 
all  a  mistake.  Perhaps  we  never  ought  to  have 
been  married.  I've  tried  hard  to  do  what  was 
right."  The  words  were  growing  slower  still. 
"  I've  never  wanted  to  stand  in  your  way,  and  I 
don't  want  to  now.  But  that's  our  business,  Billy ; 


56  THE  BEOUGHTON  HOUSE. 

it  isn't  any  of  Watson's."  She  hesitated  so  long 
that  Floyd  thought  she  had  quite  stopped,  and 
then  in  a  dry,  strange  voice  added,  "  and  I  don't 
know  what  Aunt  Tryphena  would  say." 

There  was  a  painful  silence. 

"  There  is  another  month,"  he  ejaculated,  weakly. 
He  could  not  have  told  why  he  said  this,  except 
that  the  thought  of  the  month's  interval  before 
another  letter  would  come  was  floating  at  the  top 
of  his  chaotic  ideas. 

"Yes,"  she  replied,  mechanically,  but  with  a 
trace  of  the  former  irony,  as  if  she  perceived  his 
indecision  and  his  cowardice. 

He  turned  irresolutely  away,  and  going  to  the 
sofa  picked  up  his  brushes  and  colors,  his  sketch 
ing-stool,  and  a  broad-brimmed  straw  hat.  He  was 
a  good  while  doing  it,  hoping  that  she  would 
speak,  though  he  had  no  more  idea  what  she 
would  say  than  what  he  could  himself  have  said. 
At  last  he  walked  toward  the  door,  eyeing  side 
ways  her  motionless  figure.  He  put  on  his  hat 
and  glanced  toward  her ;  she  was  not  even  looking 
at  him.  Muttering  something,  —  what,  he  hardly 
knew  himself,  —  he  opened  the  creaking  door  and 
went  out. 

Outside,  a  brilliant  July  sunlight  was  over 
everything.  The  yellow-painted  Broughton  House 
fairly  glared  under  it. 

The  artist  paused  by  habit,  on  the  sidewalk  in 
front  of  the  cottage,  and  glanced  toward  the  hotel. 


THE  BROUGHTOX  HOUSE.  57 

No  one  was  upon  the  piazza,  except  a  child  or  two. 
He  remembered  that  Collins,  in  spite  of  the  strong 
light,  had  gone  fishing,  and  that  Sonderby  had 
said  something  at  breakfast  about  some  experi 
ments  in  electricity  at  the  academy.  All  the 
better,  Floyd  thought;  he  preferred  this  morning, 
contrary  to  his  custom,  to  be  by  himself.  He 
turned  to  the  east,  and  walked  up  the  street  lei 
surely.  Scarcely  had  he  left  the  cottage  behind 
him  when  he  was  conscious  that  his  spirits  were 
rising.  He  drew  a  long  breath.  The  sitting-room 
had  seemed  so  close,  and  the  scene  with  his  wife 
had  been  so  intensely  disagreeable  !  But  to  be  out 
of  doors,  that  was  a  different  matter.  The  vaga 
bond  instincts  of  the  fellow  came  to  the  front,  and 
he  threw  back  his  head,  stretching  his  throat  away 
from  the  collar  of  his  flannel  shirt,  absorbing  great 
chestfuls  of  the  sweet  air.  Overhead  in  the  elm 
boughs  the  Baltimore  orioles  were  flashing  like 
glints  of  yellow  flame,  and  whistling  their  wild 
gurgling  call.  Floyd  caught  every  vibration  of 
that  strange  ciy ;  both  ear  and  eye  had  never  been 
so  intensely  alive  to  the  outer  world ;  he  noticed 
the  shadows  011  the  deep-fissured  bark  of  the  elm- 
tree  boles,  and  stopped  an  instant  to  study  the 
texture  of  the  bark,  and  its  exact  shade  of  choco 
late-brown  ;  he  saw  for  the  first  time  the  perfect 
line  which  an  old  well-sweep  made,  outlined  against 
a  decaying  woodshed ;  his  eye  rested  with  keener 
delight  than  ever  before  on  the  long  vista  of  elm- 


58  THE  BROUGIITON  HOUSE. 

arches  through  which  he  was  passing,  while  to 
right  and  left  were  gardens  and  orchards  in  sharp- 
cut  masses  of  light  and  shade  in  the  clear  morning 
light,  and  hayfields  showing  already  subtle  tints 
of  brown  and  yellow. 

Main  Street  was  almost  empty,  as  befitted  ten 
o'clock  in  the  morning  in  the  haying  season.  Only 
before  Parkinson's  store  were  a  couple  of  unloaded 
wagons,  waiting  to  be  weighed  upon  the  public 
scales.  The  farmers  who  drove  them,  bearded  old 
fellows  in  shirt-sleeves  and  cowhide  boots,  stopped 
their  random  interchange  of  questions  and  queries, 
to  stare  at  the  artist  as  he  sauntered  by. 

"  The  artist  fellow ;  married  Trypheny  Morton," 
he  overheard  one  of  them  explain  to  the  other. 

Floyd  was  irritated  by  the  comment.  "  Married 
Trypheny  Morton."  It  was  three  or  four  happy, 
irresponsible  minutes  since  he  had  thought  of  the 
woman  whom  he  had  left  back  there  in  the  sitting- 
room.  But  he  had  some  capacity  for  shaking  off 
disagreeable  sensations,  and  shrugged  his  shoulders 
therefore,  and  strolled  on.  As  he  passed  the  par 
sonage,  Mrs.  Ellerton,  arrayed  in  a  freshly  starched 
calico  dress,  was  kneeling  by  a  flower-bed  in  the 
front  yard,  surrounded  by  pots  of  geraniums,  which 
she  was  transplanting.  Her  weight  was  thrown 
forward  upon  her  left  hand,  almost  sunk  in  the 
freshly  upturned  earth,  while  her  right  hand  held 
a  trowel,  upon  the  point  of  which  she  steadied  her 
self  as  she  turned  to  smile 'at  her  husband,  who 


THE  BBOUGHTON  HOUSE.  59 

stood  in  his  study-gown,  and  with  pen  in  hand, 
above  her  upon  the  piazza,  joking  about  something. 
It  was  a  charming  pose,  —  that  of  Mrs.  Ellerton,— 
and  the  artist  drew  an  involuntary  quick  breath  of 
pleasure  as  he  caught  sight  of  her.  Then  he  re 
membered  that  Sonderby  had  told  him  that  the 
minister's  wife  was  interested  in  his  pictures,  and 
his  sudden  self-consciousness  gave  a  new  erectness 
to  his  figure  as  he  walked  by.  He  had  not  met 
either  of  the  Ellertons,  and  so  looked  straight  be 
fore  him,  with  assumed  nonchalance. 

Just  beyond  the  parsonage  he  turned  to  the 
left,  down  the  North  Broughton  road,  which  joined 
the  village  street  here,  in  front  of  the  white,  bare- 
looking  Orthodox  church.  The  road  to  North 
Broughton  was  not  much  travelled;  indeed,  it  was 
hardly  more  than  a  couple  of  wheel-tracks,  and  the 
encroaching  grass  did  its  utmost  to  efface  even 
these.  Down  hill  it  went,  through  pastures  that 
were  getting  overrun  along  the  fences  with  second- 
growth  birch  and  maple,  and  then  through  a  bit 
of  real  woodland.  Soon  appeared  an  opening 
again,  toward  the  west,  and  the  artist  left  the  road, 
pushing  his  way  through  the  tangle  of  blackberry 
vines  and  milkweed  that  fringed  the  rickety  stone 
wall.  Scrambling  over  the  latter,  he  came  out 
into  a  meadow,  overlooking  a  brook  and  the  ruins 
of  a  mill-dam.  Part  of  the  mill  itself  was  still 
standing.  With  the  brook  escaping  from  the 
woods  upon  one  side,  and  upon  the  other  the  white 


60  THE  BEOUGHTON  HOUSE. 

houses  of  the  village,  seen  from  the  rear  here,  and 
half  hidden  by  the  orchards  and  the  elms,  the  spot 
had  previously  suggested  itself  to  Floyd  as  one 
affording  opportunity  for  a  landscape  subject.  He 
had  thought  of  calling  the  contemplated  picture 
"  The  Old  Mill,"  and  certainly  Hobbema  himself 
could  never  have  set  an  old  mill  in  a  more  charm 
ing  background. 

Floyd  had  planned  to  make  a  preliminary  sketch 
for  the  picture  upon  this  particular  morning.  He 
set  up  his  portable  easel,  and  having  stretched  his 
canvas,  began  to  sketch  in  the  outlines  of  the 
tumble-down  building  in  charcoal.  The  first  strokes 
pleased  him ;  his  hand  seemed  steadier  and  freer 
than  usual.  He  whistled  and  hummed  away  to 
himself ;  it  was  such  a  fine  morning,  and  here  in 
the  edge  of  the  meadow,  under  the  shadow  of  the 
last  tree  of  the  forest,  there  was  so  little  to  trouble 
him.  Then,  growing  careless,  he  drew  an  unlucky 
line  ;  in  trying  to  better  it  he  made  it  worse.  The 
whistling  ceased,  and  he  began  to  work  more  slowly 
and  carefully,  but  he  did  not  regain  the  confidence 
of  those  first  few  strokes.  Possibly,  he  thought, 
he  might  be  a  trifle  nervous.  He  stepped  back 
from  the  easel  once  or  twice  to  study  the  propor 
tion  of  his  work;  it  was  not  so  bad — no — but 
after  all,  as  he  finished  the  outlines  and  scanned  it 
critically,  he  could  not  disguise  from  himself  that 
it  was  out  of  drawing.  He  gave  an  impatient 


THE  BROUGHTOX  HOUSE.  61 

exclamation.  Confound  it !  he  had  never  half 
learned  to  draw! 

Floyd  was  easily  put  out  of  temper  with  himself, 
and  finding  that  after  some  rubbing  and  measur 
ing  and  redrawing  the  sketch  did  not  entirely  suit 
him,  he  was  too  disgusted  to  begin  again  from  the 
first,  and  therefore  opened  his  color-box  and  be 
gan  squeezing  and  mixing  greens,  and  yellows  and 
browns  upon  his  palette,  resolved  to  make  mem 
oranda  of  the  colors  at  least,  under  this  favorable 
light. 

His  eye  was  really  good,  and  as  he  began  to 
paint,  and  was  conscious  of  reproducing  cleverly 
the  tones  of  the  brilliant  coloring  before  him,  his 
spirits  came  back,  and  he  felt  again  something  of 
that  peculiar  exaltation  which  he  had  experienced  as 
he  walked  down  the  street  three-quarters  of  an  hour 
before.  Before  another  hour  had  passed  he  had 
accomplished  a  good  deal.  He  had  transferred 
to  canvas  the  shadowy  masses  of  woodland,  the 
bright  green  of  the  meadow,  through  which  the 
brook  gleamed  and  whitened,  the  breadth  of  meadow, 
turning  now  to  yellowish  brown  and  showing  here 
and  there  a  strip  of  purest  gold  where  the  grain- 
fields  were  ripening  early,  and  in  the  far  back 
ground  the  low  line  of  blue  hills,  stretching  on 
and  on,  shadowed  now  and  then  by  the  white 
clouds  which  they  seemed  at  last  to  touch. 

The  artist  had  wished  to  make  sure  of  these 
transient  effects  first,  fearing  that  they  might  es- 


62  THE  BEOUGHTON  HOUSE. 

cape  him ;  and  it  was  not  till  he  had  nearly  finished 
that  he  turned  his  attention  to  the  village,  in  the 
left  background.  There  was  nothing  difficult  about 
that,  and  he  filled  in  rapidly  the  line  of  foliage,  and 
began  to  blotch  it  with  white  where  the  houses 
stood.  He  smiled  as  he  put  on  a  daub  of  ugly  yel 
low,  to  represent  the  Broughton  House.  Then,  as 
he  held  his  broad  hat  in  the  air  to  shade  his  eyes 
better  and  give  him  a  steady  view  of  the  hotel,  a 
look  of  irritation  came  over  his  mobile  face,  for 
against  the  yellow  there  was  a  low  brown  building. 
He  recognized  the  cottage,  and  for  the  first  time 
since  he  had  begun  to  paint,  there  crept  upon  his 
mind  the  thought  of  his  wife. 

His  wife !  Mechanically  he  put  in  the  yellow'. 
Then  he  wiped  his  brush,  forgetting  that  he  had 
meant  to  paint  the  rest  of  the  white  houses  that 
peeped  through  the  elm-trees  on  lower  Main  Street, 
beyond  the  hotel.  His  wife !  She  was  not  to  be 
left  out  of  the  landscape,  after  all. 

He  folded  his  sketching-stool,  and,  throwing 
himself  down  at  full  length  before  the  easel,  lay 
there  just  within  the  line  of  the  shade,  gazing 
moodily  toward  the  village. 

She  was  there,  somewhere,  probably  in  the  very 
room  where  he  had  left  her.  Perhaps  she  was  in 
that  chair  by  the  window,  where  she  sat  so  motion 
less  and  unregardful  of  him  when  he  had  come 
away.  Confound  the  woman  !  why  should  she  per 
sist  in  being  so  strange  ?  Who  could  be  expected 


THE  JHiOUGHTON  HOUSE.  63 

to  understand  her!  Well,  what  was  the  use  of 
trying  ?  He  called  himself  an  artist ;  why  not  give 
himself  to  the  life  of  art  ?  His  eye  fell  upon  the 
completed  sketch.  The  sunlight  rested  full  upon 
it  now,  and  it  seemed  too  crude  and  brilliant.  It 
needed  toning  down.  This  could  easily  be  done ; 
but  was  that  all?  How  about  the  drawing? 
Floyd's  eye  was  too  accurate,  naturally,  to  let  him 
be  ignorant  of  the  fact  that  there  was  a  radical 
deficiency  in  his  work. 

Well,  he  thought  fiercely,  suppose  there  Avas  ? 
Whose  fault  was  it  ?  What  had  tempted  him  to 
stay  in  America  when  he  had  come  home  for  that 
visit,  three  years  previously,  before  he  had  half 
learned  Avhat  Munich  could  teach  him  ? 

His  eye  wandered  toward  the  cottage  again.  It 
had  been  Tryphena  Morton. 

Floyd  had  a  dislike,  common  to  men  of  his  tem 
perament,  of  thinking  things  through.  It  was 
easier  and  pleasanter  for  him,  generally,  to  be 
guided  by  the  impressions  and  sensations  of  the 
moment.  But  just  now  his  ideas  had  a  certain 
tenacious  continuity,  and  his  mind  travelled  again 
over  the  whole  road  of  his  past  experience.  There 
was  his  boyhood,  passed  in  a  Long  Island  town, 
where  his  earliest  memories  were  of  the  wrharves, 
and  of  escapades  along  the  beach  at  low  tide.  His 
first  passion  had  been  to  build  a  boat,  and  his  sec 
ond  to  draw  one.  He  drew  them  for  years,  —  on  his 
slate  in  school,  on  brown  paper  in  his  father's  gro- 


64  THE  BEOUGHTON  HOUSE. 

eery  store,  on  smooth  boards  at  the  lumber  piles 
upon  the  wharf.  Then  some  attention  was  paid  to 
him ;  he  was  given  a  box  of  cheap  paints.  At  six 
teen  he  took  a  prize  at  the  county  fair,  for  a  water- 
color.  He  had  been  very  proud ;  yet,  as  he  recog 
nized  clearly  when  he  looked  back  at  it  on  this 
July  morning,  it  was  the  worst  thing  that  could 
have  happened  to  him,  artistically.  It  made  him 
vain,  and  it  did  not  bring  him  a  teacher.  He  be 
gan  to  try  oils  after  that,  and  by  the  time  he  was 
twenty  he  could  almost  support  himself  by  painting 
portraits.  Long  Island  folks  were  not  very  critical. 
Finally  he  gave  that  up,  went  to  Brooklyn,  and  got 
work  in  a  lithographer's  establishment.  Here  he 
began  to  find  out  his  defects,  to  meet  other  young 
fellows,  ambitious  like  himself ;  he  joined  an  evening 
class,  and  saved  his  money  to  pay  for  models.  Then 
he  lost  his  job ;  and  when  he  was  almost  discour 
aged,  how  like  a  dream  it  seemed  when  old  Watson 
took  an  interest  in  him  and  said  he  should  have 
"  as  good  a  chance  as  any  of  them,"  and  sent  him 
to  Munich ! 

Ah,  Munich  !  As  Floyd  thought  of  that  year 
and  a  half,  he  turned  flat  over  on  his  back,  and 
pulling  his  hat  down  upon  his  face,  gave  himself 
up  to  alluring  memories. 

What  days  and  nights  he  had  spent  in  the  Bava 
rian  capital !  What  long  mornings  of  work  in  the 
atelier,  elbowed  by  young  painters  from  every 
nationality  in  Europe,  except  the  French  !  There 


THE  BEOUGHTON  HOUSE.  65 

was  gaiety  there  and  good-fellowship,  the  jostle  of 
ideas,  the  pulse  of  ambition,  the  breath  of  rivalry. 
How  just  and  kindly  had  been  the  criticisms  of  his 
masters  !  How  serious  had  l>een  their  headshakino* 

o 

as  they  recognized  his  knack  of  handling  color,  un 
accompanied  by  a  mastery  of  the  one  fundamental 
thing  in  his  work;  how  roundly  had  they  con 
demned  the  American  fashion  of  hurrying  a  pupil 
along  to  dabble  with  oils  before  he  was  ready  for 
it;  how  rigidly  had  they  tried  to  put  him  on  the  right 
track  again,  by  going  back  to  the  starting-point ! 
Floyd  blushed  now  to  think  that  he  had  been  so 
irresponsive,  so  unreasonable  ;  that  he  had  persisted 
in  working  in  color  so  much  of  the  time,  in  spite  of 
the  laconic  dictatorial  warnings  he  received.  To 
be  sure,  he  had  scarcely  understood  them  at  first, 
the  language  and  the  ideas  were  so  new  to  him ; 
still  he  might  have  gotten  hold  of  more,  though  he 
felt,  as  he  clinched  his  fingers  into  the  meadow 
grass,  that  he  had  at  any  rate  gotten  hold  of  some 
thing.  If  he  had  only  stayed  longer !  What  after 
noons  those  had  been,  when  the  autumn  and  winter 
light  failed  early,  and  he  and  his  knot  of  friends 
lounged  through  the  gay  streets  or  loitered  in  the 
dusky  Frauenkirche,  to  hear  the  vesper  music; 
those  evenings,  all  too  swiftly  passed,  when  they  had 
gathered  in  the  Hofbraiierei,  the  Augustiner,  the 
Franziscaner,  or  in  some  out-of-the-way  restaurant 
given  up  to  the  patronage  of  art-students,  or  even 
in  one  of  their  own  attic  "  studios,"  and  talked  art, 


66  THE  BROUGHTON  HOUSE. 

and  drunk  the  health  of  every  conceivable  person 
or  thing  in  foaming  Miinchener,  and,  reviling  Ger 
man  tobacco  all  the  while,  had  smoked  it  till  they 
were  sitting  in  a  blue  fog,  —  the  right  atmosphere, 
after  all,  for  art  and  air-castles.  Over  it  all  was 
the  charm  of  comradeship,  of  mutual  enthusiasms 
and  purposes.  Floyd  was  not  analyst  enough  to 
know  how  much  of  the  fascination  that  Munich 
had  for  him  lay  in  the  selfishness  of  his  life  there, 
the  lack  of  any  ideals  except  artistic  ones  —  and 
these  mainly  technical  —  the  easy  morality,  the 
freedom  from  responsibility.  He  was  simply  con 
scious  of  having  had  an  immensely  good  time,  and 
of  having  learned  something. 

The  sun  had  IIOAV  worked  its  way  out  from  be 
hind  the  trees  and  shone  so  hot  upon  the  artist 
that  it  destroyed  his  reverie.  He  pulled  himself 
into  the  shadow  again,  and  opening  his  eyes,  gazed 
gloomily  through  the  grass-blades,  out  over  the 
intervening  meadows,  at  the  trim  New  England 
village  before  him.  That  was  what  he  had  come 
back  to.  Why  had  he  been  such  a  fool  ?  Yonder 
heap  of  brown  against  the  yellow  of  the  B rough- 
ton  House  contained  the  answer  —  it  was  Try- 
phena  Morton  Floyd. 

He  had  come  home  from  Munich  one  spring, 
summoned  by  some  family  affairs,  and  was  about 
to  secure  passage  for  his  return  when  he  met  this 
girl.  She  was  singularly  graceful.  Her  shyness 
attracted  him.  The  only  women  he  had  known  in 


THE  BBOVGHTOS   HOUSE.  67 

his  absence  were  waitresses  and  models,  and  the 
quiet,  delicate  ways  of  this  New  England  girl 
seemed  doubly  grateful  to  him.  He  fell  in  love. 
She  refused  him.  He  postponed  his  return  to 
German}',  and  waited,  and  would  not  give  her  up. 
She  let  him  see  something  of  her  still,  and  finally 
her  mind  seemed  to  change  and  she  opened  her 
heart  to  him.  He  was  lucky  enough  to  sell  some 
pictures ;  the  outlook  for  the  future  seemed  hope 
ful  ;  he  abandoned  the  idea  of  returning  to  his 
studies,  and  they  were  married. 

In  vain  did  old  Watson,  who  disliked  the  girl, 
growl  about  the  marriage.  When  he  persisted  in 
objecting,  Floyd  quarrelled  with  him.  Love  was 
enough. 

And  afterward?  Ah,  that  " afterward."  It 
came  so  soon,  like  the  gray  veils  of  cloud  that 
drift  in  from  nobody  knows  where,  unaccountably 
and  quietly,  to  dim  the  sun,  on  a  spring  morning. 
As  swiftly  as  those,  but  less  inexplicably,  came  to 
the  Floyds  disappointment,  disillusion,  distrust. 
He  felt  them  sooner  than  she,  though  the  wife  had 
greater  cause.  His  selfishness  did  more  to  make 
their  union  an  unfit  one,  than  did  her  failure  to 
understand  him,  which  was  all,  after  everything 
was  said,  that  he  could  bring  against  her.  He  even 
had  times  of  thinking  that  she  did  understand 
him  thoroughly,  that  she  saw  straight  through 
him,  but  that  she  had  no  sympathy  for  his  pecu- 


68  THE  BEOUGHTON  HOUSE. 

liarities,  for  his  artist's  moods.  Whenever  he  felt 
this,  his  irritation  against  her  was  strongest. 

Indeed,  he  was  more  than  half  right.  When 
she  married  him  she  was  as  utterly  ignorant  as  a 
New  England  country  girl  can  be  of  all  that  was 
to  him  most  interesting.  The  art-jargon  that  lie 
talked  was  meaningless  to  her,  however  diligently 
she  tried  to  learn.  She  had  tried  hard,  hard  as 
a  loving  woman  can  who  feels  that  her  husband's 
life  ought  not  to  be  separated  from  her  own.  But 
the  more  she  penetrated  beneath  the  surface  of  his 
mind  and  life,  the  more  she  found  of  chaos,  of  ego 
tism,  of  superficial  aims,  shifting  desires. 

She  grew  secretly  afraid ;  there  was  so  little  in 
him  that  she  could  take  hold  of,  depend  upon.  He 
seemed  to  be  slipping  away  from  her,  and  her  love, 
strong  as  it  had  been,  rebelled  against  its  own  im 
potence. 

For  his  part,  though  he  had  perhaps  loved  her 
at  first  as  much  as  he  would  have  been  likely  to 
love  anybody,  and  was  still  very  fond  of  her,  in  a 
way,  he  had  never  been  able  entirely  to  make  her 
out.  When  he  first  met  her,  this  had  added  to  her 
charm ;  but  once  married,  he  wanted  to  know  defi 
nitely  what  he  could  expect  from  her.  Upon  this 
point  he  was  never  quite  sure.  She  seldom  re 
proached  him  for  anything,  but  behind  the  slightly 
sarcastic  sentences  which  were  frequent  in  her  talk, 
and  which  had  delighted  him  originally,  he  often 
suspected  that  there  was  hidden  a  deeper  and  more 


THE  BROUGHTON  HOUSE.  69 

bitter  irony  than  appeared  upon  the  surface.  There 
was  a  power  of  feeling  in  her  which  his  weaker 
nature  surmised  and  dreaded.  Floyd  was  a  man 
who  wanted  to  domineer,  to  be  master  and  to  make 
a  parade  of  it.  and  the  very  obedience  and  subor 
dination  which  his  Avife  had  always  exhibited 
taunted  him  sometimes,  as  if  back  of  that  self- 
abnegation  there  was  something  more  powerful 
than  himself,  which  penetrated  his  shallowness,  and 
only  seemed  to  }~ield,  and  in  reality  baffled  him. 
Nearly  three  years  had  crept  away  since  their 
marriage :  years  of  scrimping,  of  cheap  boarding- 
houses,  of  quarrels  with  picture-dealers  ;  years,  too, 
of  health  and  hope  and  experiment.  But  Floyd 
had  experienced  an  artistic  disillusion,  as  well  as  a 
personal  one.  His  pictures  were  called  clever,  but 
too  sketchy.  There  were  too  many  faults  in  com 
position.  His  dealer  had  spoken  plainly  to  him  of 
the  criticisms  he  had  heard;  old  Watson,  whose 
fine  private  collection  was  gradually  training  its 
owner's  taste,  and  who  stubbornly  insisted  on  writ 
ing  to  Floyd  occasionally,  was  forever  harping  on 
the  same  subject,  and  Floyd  had  at  last  learned  his 
artistic  lesson,  though  it  was  a  hard  one  for  him. 
He  must  put  himself  again  under  a  master ;  that 
was  the  decision.  Vain  as  he  was,  —  too  vain  to 
seek  instruction  in  Xew  York,  —  he  had  made  up 
his  mind  at  last  to  go  back  to  composition-classes 
once  more,  if  the  way  were  only  open.  Then,  later, 
he  would  take  America  bv  storm. 


70  THE  BROUGHTON  HOUSE. 

If  the  way  were  only  open !  He  thrust  his  hand 
into  his  side-pocket  and  drew  out  the  fragments  of 
Watson's  letter.  Pulling  up  handfuls  of  daisies 
and  timothy  till  he  had  cleared  a  few  inches  of 
turf,  he  laid  out  the  pieces  and  slowly  arranged 
them  in  their  places.  The  fact  that  he  had  to  piece 
his  letter  together  in  this  fashion,  after  Mrs.  Floyd 
had  torn  it  in  two,  seemed  to  make  it  easier  for 
him  to  read  between  the  lines,  perhaps  to  read 
something  of  his  own  into  them. 

The  meaning,  after  all,  was  clear  enough.  Try- 
phena  had  caught  it  at  a  glance.  Watson  wanted 
him  to  go  back  to  Munich,  but  he  wanted  him 
to  go  alone.  Still,  the  cynical  old  broker  was 
cautious  and  had  given  him  a  month,  perhaps  to 
let  him  arrange  matters  with  Tryphena.  Floyd 
had  tried  many  a  time  to  fancy  his  wife  "over 
there  "  with  him,  but  his  imagination  could  find 
no  place  for  her  in  the  circle  of  his  Munich  life. 
He  did  not  wish  her  there ;  he  might  as  well  own 
it  to  himself.  He  could  not  support  her  in  Amer 
ica  during  his  absence.  After  his  absence  was 
over?  Would  he  come  back  to  her? 

Again  there  came  to  him,  as  in  that  crisis  of  the 
earlier  morning  with  his  wife,  the  sense  of  perfect 
stillness,  as  if  all  things  held  their  breath  and 
waited  for  his  decision.  No  —  not  all  things. 
Down  across  the  meadow  crawled  a  mowing- 
machine  on  its  ceaseless  jarring  round,  monoto 
nously,  mechanically.  The  light  and  shadow  had 


THE  BROUGHTON  HOUSE.  71 

all  gone  from  the  meadow  now,  leaving  nothing 
but  the  hot  glare  of  a  vertical  sun;  yet  the  machine 
kept  on,  heedless  of  anything  but  its  work.  The 
fine,  steady  whirr  of  the  toothed  wheels  kept  bit 
ing  away  on  the  artist's  ear,  irritatingly.  The 
machine  was  a  type  of  humdrum,  horizonless  toil, 
of  life  without  impulse,  without  sensation,  of  the 
life  Floyd  saw  around  him  in  New  England.  It 
was  the  only  life  Tryphena  knew ;  it  was  the  life 
they  seemed  destined  to  live  together. 

The  artist  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  leaving  the 
letter  there  in  the  trampled  grass,  paced  up  and 
down  indecisively  in  the  shadow  of  the  woods. 
Would  he  come  back  to  her? 

Something  far  down  within  him  said,  "  Xo,"  and 
he  found  a  satisfaction  in  listening  to  it,  in  seem 
ing  to  accept  it,  and  imagining  that  he  had  settled 
the  question.  It  was  an  ugly  question,  certainly, 
and  he  hated  any  unpleasantness ;  but  if  it  must 
come,  —  he  shrugged  his  shoulders  in  a  fashion  he 
had  acquired  abroad. 

Well,  and  Tryphena  ?  Characteristically,  Floyd 
had  considered  himself  first.  Would  she  object  to 
the  "scheme  "?  He  remembered  that  he  had  used 
this  euphemistic  expression  to  her  that  morning, 
and  he  scowled  as  he  recalled  her  answer,  so 
simple  that  it  staggered  him,  "  Why  should  I?" 

In  the  two  or  three  hours  or  more  that  had 
elapsed  since  the  scene  in  the  sitting-room,  he  had 
kept  it  pretty  thoroughly  out  of  his  mind,  thanks 


72  THE  BROUGHTON  HOUSE. 

to  his  habit  of  getting  rid  of  disagreeable  impres 
sions,  especially  when  there  was  fine  weather  to 
help  him.  But  that  power  failed  him  now,  and  he 
found  himself  saying  over  again  almost  every  word 
that  had  passed  between  himself  and  his  wife.  It 
was  the  first  time  they  had  ever  discussed  their 
marriage,  in  set  words,  and  Floyd,  after  some  ner 
vous  pacing  to  and  fro,  had  a  kind  of  conviction 
that  it  would  be  the  last.  He  was  enraged,  more 
than  at  anything  else  in  his  remembrance  of  their 
discussion,  at  the  way  he  had  closed  it.  He  had 
stood  there  like  a  schoolboy,  and  had  stammered 
out,  "There  is  another  month,"  as  if  he  were  afraid 
to  settle  the  matter ;  and  she  had  answered  noth 
ing  but  "yes,"  in  that  curious  dry  tone  of  hers, 
which  he  was  never  able  to  fathom.  There  could 
scarcely  have  been  a  more  inglorious,  undramatic 
ending. 

He  paused  in  his  walk,  and  pulled  out  his  watch. 
It  was  dinner-time,  and  he  was  hungry.  Men  must 
dine,  crisis  or  none.  To  go  back  to  the  Broughton 
House  and  sit  by  Tryphena's  side  through  three 
courses  and  dessert,  and  perhaps  to  play  whist 
afterwards,  with  Sonderby  and  Mrs.  Floyd  against 
Collins  and  himself  —  all  that,  after  what  had  hap 
pened  that  forenoon,  was  rather  commonplace  and 
unheroic,  but  it  was  very  much  the  way  of  the 
world. 

"  There  is  another  month."  Perhaps  he  had 
ended  well  enough,  in  spite  of  his  momentary 


THE  BBOUGHTOy  HOUSE.  73 

disgust  at  himself;  and  the  artist  felt  all  of  a 
sudden  that  he  had  been  analyzing  as  long  as  he 
could  stand  it.  He  had  thought  everything  straight 
through,  for  once,  and  had  finished  very  much 
where  he  began,  in  a  determination  to  let  matters 
take  their  natural  course.  There  was  no  imme 
diate  crisis,  after  all ;  everything  would  go  along- 
just  as  before.  Some  subtle  cord  had  perhaps  been 
snapped,  but  no  one  would  know  the  difference  — 
for  another  month.  He  picked  up  the  letter,  folded 
his  easel  and  stool,  packed  away  his  brushes,  and 
holding  the  finished  sketch  carefully  in  one  hand, 
took  a  short  cut  across  the  meadows  to  the  hotel. 

Mre.  Floyd,  left  in  the  low  rocking-chair  by 
the  window,  when  her  artist  husband  closed 
the  squeaking  door  behind  him,  sat  there  a  long 
while.  Little  by  little  the  disturbed  sparrow 
ceased  its  tremulous  fluttering  in  the  lilac  bush, 
and  settling  down  upon  its  nest  again,  was  quite 
still.  What  was  there  in  the  fresh  morning,  up 
among  the  Broughton  hills,  that  could  bring  a 
certain  stale  odor  to  the  nostrils  of  that  pale-faced, 
dark-haired  young  woman  of  twenty-two?  Yet 
Mrs.  Floyd  became  conscious  of  breathing  an  air 
that  she  remembered  well.  Perhaps  it  was  only 
something  from  the  Broughton  House  kitchen, 
acting  on  her  by  the  subtle  associations  which 
odors  convey,  but  Tryphena  Floyd  was  for  the 
moment  carried  far  away  from  Broughton.  She 


74  THE  EEOUGHTON  HOUSE. 

was  again  in  the  basement  dining-room  of  a  Brook 
lyn  boarding-house,  in  the  close,  gas-heated,  grease- 
scented  air.  The  room  was  noisy  with  the  clatter 
of  dishes,  the  hurrying  of  slatternly  servants,  the 
well-worn  jokes  of  the  boarders.  At  the  head  of 
the  table  sat  Aunt  Tryphosa,  dear,  fat,  Aunt 
Tryphosa,  who  had  married  an  old  bachelor  when 
both  their  best  days  were  long  past,  and  who  had 
gone  to  live  in  Brooklyn,  and  had  been  absurdly 
happy.  Near  her  was  a  dark,  shy  girl  from  the 
country,  her  guest,  and  opposite  the  country  girl, 
watching  her  with  greedy  eyes,  was  a  young  artist, 
just  returned  from  Munich,  whom  the  girl  addressed 
timidly  from  time  to  time,  as  "  Mr.  Floyd." 

Bah !  Mrs.  Floyd  rose  wearily,  and  shut  the 
west  sitting-room  window.  She  thought  it  was 
the  cooking  at  the  hotel.  In  the  last  ten  minutes 
she  had  grown  old.  Was  it  only  three  years  since 
Aunt  Tryphosa  had  invited  her  to  Brooklyn?  It 
was  a  lifetime  —  an  eternity. 

Tying  the  strings  of  an  apron  around  her  waist, 
she  made  ready  for  her  scanty  morning  duties  in 
the  cottage.  A  tall,  gilt-framed  mirror  hung  in 
front  of  her,  and,  scarcely  knowing  what  she  did, 
she  stood  staring  into  it,  still  thinking  of  her  visit 
to  Aunt  Tryphosa.  Only  three  years  ?  She  had 
surveyed  herself  in  that  mirror  the  morning  she 
started  —  a  fresh-faced,  ignorant  maiden  of  scarcely 
twenty,  with  romantic  notions.  And  now?  Less 
color  in  her  cheeks,  more  depth  in  her  eyes,  and 


THE  BROUGHTON  HOUSE.  75 

less  innocence  in  her  heart ;  a  womanlier  figure 
and  a  woman's  insight :  all  this  had  come  to  her  in 
three  years.  How  much  that  silent  glass  and  gilt 
had  seen,  she  thought.  Her  mother,  whom  she 
scarcely  remembered,  had  dressed  for  her  wedding 
by  it,  forty  }rears  before ;  so  had  good,  queer  Aunt 
Tryphosa ;  and  so  had  she  herself,  Tryphena  Mor 
ton,  on  that  rainy  autumn  afternoon,  when  she  had 
been  so  happy.  She  turned  away  quickly. 

She  passed  into  the  bedroom,  soon  after  that,  to 
put  it  in  order,  moving  automatically.  It  had  been 
Aunt  Tryphena's  room  once ;  Aunt  Tryphena,  the 
only  mother  the  girl  had  ever  known.  Her  child 
ish  memories  gathered  about  this  room ;  it  was  a 
sort  of  sacred  place  to  her.  And  now  it  was  theirs : 
hers  and  her  husband's.  Mrs.  Floyd  stopped  help 
lessly  in  the  middle  of  her  work.  She  Avent  out 
into  the  sitting-room,  crossed  it  quite  steadily  to 
the  wall  where  Aunt  Tryphena's  picture  hung,  and 
catching  the  black  oval  frame  in  both  hands,  burst 
into  tears,  and  covered  the  daguerreotvpe  with 
piteous  kisses.  Then  she  dropped  upon  the  hair 
cloth  sofa,  and  lay  there,  sobbing. 

An  hour  later  Mrs.  Floyd,  who  was  a  woman  of 
narrow  resources,  and  not,  like  her  more  gifted 
husband,  a  person  to  whom  the  consolations  of 
nature  and  of  art  were  always  potent,  bathed  her 
eyes,  as  women  do,  and,  finding  the  loneliness  of 
the  cottage  intolerable,  went  over  to  the  parlor  of 
the  Broughton  House.  When  her  husband  came 


76  THE  BEOUGHTON  HOUSE. 

in  to  dinner  he  found  her  there,  with  the  last 
Harpers  Weekly  uncut  in  her  lap,  talking  to  John 
Sonderby. 


IV. 


TOWARDS  the  end  of  the  week  that  followed 
upon  the  Saturday  evening  when  Sonderby  had 
been  entertained  at  the  parsonage,  the  minister  and 
his  wife  started  out  to  call  upon  the  Floyds.  Mrs. 
Ellerton  had  been  debating  for  some  davs  her  social 

O  *j 

duty  in  this  matter,  even  before  the  school-teacher 
had  told  her  something  of  his  associates  at  the 
hotel.  As  the  wife  of  the  minister,  Mrs.  Ellerton 
felt  that  she  had  peculiar  responsibilities,  as  far  as 
calling  was  concerned,  and  some  oversights  on  her 
part,  at  the  commencement  of  their  life  in  Brough- 
ton,  had  taught  her  how  sensitive,  even  punctilious, 
the  people  in  the  village  were,  at  least  in  their  de 
mands  upon  herself. 

Mrs.  Floyd  was  a  newcomer  in  one  sense,  and, 
thus  far,  the  obligation  of  the  minister's  wife  was 
clear:  she  should  make  the  first  call.  But  from 
another  standpoint  it  was  Mrs.  Ellerton  who  was 
the  newcomer,  and  the  artist's  wife,  as  a  native  of 
Broughton,  ought  certainly  to  have  called  at  the 
parsonage.  She  had  not  done  so.  Moreover,  she 
had  hitherto  absented  herself  from  church  except 
on  the  Sunday  when  the  quartette  were  there  to 
gether,  though  Mrs.  Ellerton  discovered  by  con- 


78  THE  BROUGHTON  HOUSE. 

suiting  the  church  manual  that  Tryphena  Morton 
had  joined  the  Congregationalists  in  her  early  girl 
hood. 

Mrs.  Ellerton  had  a  sort  of  intuition,  too,  that 
the  artist's  wife  did  not  care  particularly  to  be 
called  upon;  and  that  was  certainly  the  opinion 
which  Broughton  people  had  of  Tryphena's  wishes 
in  the  matter,  as  a  deacon's  wife  gratuitously  in 
formed  Mrs.  Ellerton.  But,  on  the  whole,  the  lat 
ter  considered  that  it  Avas  her  duty  to  make  the 
call;  and  the  performance  of  her  obligation  was 
considerably  lightened  by  two  facts  :  she  was  anx 
ious  to  see  Floyd's  work;  and  in  the  second  place 
she  had  taken  a  strong  liking  for  the  school-teacher, 
and  she  wanted  to  see  for  herself  the  kind  of  people 
with  whom  he  was  at  present  thrown.  She  sus 
pected,  though  she  could  not  have  told  why,  that 
they  were  not  his  equals,  that  this  long  summer 
vacation  was  a  time  of  deterioration  for  him ;  and 
she  felt  hurt  by  it  and  wondered  if  there  were  any 
way  to  help  it. 

Broughton  women  were  not  very  scrupulous  as 
to  the  time  when  they  received  calls,  —  provided 
only  they  were  not  in  the  kitchen,  and  it  was 
neither  washing-day  nor  ironing-day  nor  baking- 
day,  —  and  Ruth  Ellerton  had  acquired  the  habit 
of  starting  soon  after  dinner  in  order  to  make  as 
many  as  possible  within  the  limits  of  the  afternoon. 

Upon  this  particular  Tuesday,  however,  it  was 
nearly  four  o'clock  before  she  was  attired  in  her 


THE  BEOUGHTON   HOUSE.  79 

soft  gray  Henrietta,  and  called  her  husband  from 
his  study  to  accompany  her.  Arthur  Ellerton 
was  not  unwilling  to  come.  His  next  Sun 
day's  sermon  was  in  a  satisfactory  state  of 
progress  —  indeed,  it  was  a  peculiarity  of  Ellerton 
that  he  was  generally  optimistic  about  his  ser 
mon,  in  whatever  period  of  evolution  it  chanced 
to  be.  He  was  fond,  too,  of  making  parish 
calls,  partly  because  he  had  not  yet  done  enough 
of  it  to  weary  him,  but  mainly  because  he  was 
fitted  by  nature  to  do  it  well.  Ellerton  met  peo 
ple  easily ;  he  could  talk  upon  any  subject  or  upon 
no  subject;  there  was  something  in  his  boyish 
laugh  and  the  heartiness  of  his  manner  that  drew 
men  instinctively  to  him,  and  made  his  calls  one  of 
his  most  favorable  opportunities  for  influence  upon 
his  parish.  Slightly  monotonous  as  might  have 
appeared  to  him,  at  times,  the  conversation  of  his 
deacons'  wives,  or  of  his  young  lady  organist,  there 
was  nothing  in  the  prospect  of  a  call  upon  the 
Floyds  to  give  him  anything  but  pleasure.  They 
had  interests  outside  of  Broughton,  at  any  rate, 
and  the  artist  ought  to  have  something  to  talk 
about.  If  Ellerton  scarcely  possessed  the  con 
scious,  strenuous  desire  to  reach  people,  to  in 
fluence  them  for  good,  which  was  a  passion  with 
his  more  finely  organized  wife,  there  was  an  un 
conscious,  healthy  benevolence  about  him  that 
made  him  like  to  meet  people,  and  caused  him 
to  effect,  almost  without  knowing  it,  that  irnpres- 


80  THE  BEOUGHTON   HOUSE. 

sion  upon  others  which  his  wife  gained  by  means 
of  secret  trembling,  and  ever-renewed  aspirations, 
and  many  prayers. 

As  they  reached  the  post-office,  on  their  way 
down  the  street,  the  mail  was  just  distributed, 
and  Euth  Ellerton  strolled  on  slowly,  while  her 
husband  stepped  inside  to  get  the  county  paper, 
due  that  day.  Before  he  rejoined  his  wife,  Floyd 
sauntered  past  her,  his  white  helmet  hat  far  back 
on  his  head,  his  hands  in  the  pockets  of  his  loose 
coat.  The  artist  had  been  waiting  for  the  mail : 
why,  he  scarcely  knew,  as  he  had  no  reason  to 
expect  anything,  yet  it  was  rarely  that  he  failed, 
nowadays,  to  be  at  the  office  in  the  afternoon. 

The  callers  turned  in  at  the  cottage  gate  just  as 
Floyd  reached  the  door.  He  did  not  notice  them 
at  first;  for  Mrs.  Floyd  met  him  in  the  doorway, 
bringing  out  in  her  slender  arms  an  oddly  carved 
cherry  table.  He  took  it  from  her,  though  not 
very  promptly,  and  set  it  in  the  shade  of  the  lilacs, 
in  front  of  a  bench  that  always  stood  there.  Mrs. 
Floyd  turned  into  the  cottage  again,  as  if  to  fetch 
something  else,  and  at  the  moment  when  the  artist 
had  settled  the  table  solidly  upon  the  gravelled 
walk,  he  looked  up  to  find  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ellerton 
close  to  him. 

Floyd  bowed,  with  a  low  sweep  of  the  helmet 
hat,  and  gave  himself  the  privilege  of  a  full,  long 
look  at  Ruth  Ellerton's  face. 

44  Is  Mrs.  Floyd  in?"  she  began  —  "we  are  glad  " 


THE  BBOUGHTON  HOUSE.  81 

—  then  hesitated  and  glanced  at  her  card-case. 
The  artist's  stare  had  slightly  disconcerted  her. 

Arthur  Ellerton's  frank  voice  followed  quickly 
npoii  her  pause.  "  I  don't  know  that  we  need  any 
introduction,"  he  said,  in  his  cheery,  incontro 
vertible  fashion  of  uttering  a  commonplace ;  "  but, 
Mrs.  Ellerton,  this  is  Mr.  Floyd."  Then  stretch 
ing  out  his  quick  hand,  before  the  artist  could 
murmur  the  conventional  reply,  the  minister  added, 
k*  I  am  very  glad  to  make  your  acquaintance." 

Floyd  bowed  slightly,  and  his  eyes  wandered  to 
Mrs.  Ellerton  again. 

"  Shall  we  stay  here  ?  "  asked  Floyd,  ••  or  will 
you  come  inside  ?  " 

"  Oh,  it  is  so  pleasant  here,"  smiled  Mrs.  Eller 
ton,  and  she  glanced  toward  the  bench. 

"  My  wife  is  just  bringing  out  some  chairs,"  ex 
plained  Floyd.  "  We  were  going  to  play  whist," 
he  added,  then  bit  his  lip  as  he  thought  of  the  in 
felicity  of  his  remark  —  the  more  so  as  Mrs.  Eller 
ton  said  instantly,  "  Oh,  you  mustn't  let  us  inter 
rupt  a  whist-party!" 

At  that  instant  Mre.  Floyd  appeared  in  the  door 
way,  holding  in  front  of  her  the  cushioned  rocking- 
chair  that  usually  stood  by  the  sewing-machine. 
It  seemed  heavy  for  her,  and  both  gentlemen 
started  to  take  it,  but  Ellerton  was  the  quicker. 

"  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ellerton  are  here,"  said  Floyd. 

Mrs.  Floyd  bowed,  and  a  little  color  came  into 
her  pale  cheeks. 


82  THE  BROUGHTON  HOUSE. 

"Won't  you  be  pleased  to  sit  down?"  she 
asked. 

It  was  the  beginning  of  a  phrase  that  Aunt  Try- 
phena  had  taught  her  in  her  girlhood  as  the  polite 
formula  of  hospitality.  The  remainder  of  the  ex 
pression —  "and  make  yourself  to  home"  —  Mrs. 
Floyd  had  gradually  dropped  in  recent  years,  as 
she  became  conscious  that  most  persons  in  Brook 
lyn  did  not  use  it. 

"  Thank  you.  How  pleasant  it  is  here  under 
the  lilacs ! "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Ellerton,  as  she  seated 
herself  at  one  end  of  the  oak  bench. 

"  It  is  pretty  in  the  summer  time,"  answered 
Mrs.  Floyd,  taking  timid  possession  of  the  rocking- 
chair  near  by.  "-Aunt  Tryphena  used  to  set  a 
great  deal  of  store  by  them  —  the  lilacs,  I  mean. 
They  used  to  be  the  handsomest  in  town." 

"Yes?" 

Mrs.  Ellerton's  eyes  grew  soft  as  she  looked  at 
Mrs.  Floyd's  black  dress,  and  remembered  that  the 
first  funeral  Mr.  Ellerton  had  attended  after  they 
came  to  Broughton  had  been  that  of  Aunt  Try 
phena. 

"  I  am  very  sorry,"  she  added,  gently,  "  that  we 
could  not  have  known  your  aunt." 

Mrs.  Floyd  lifted  her  dark  eyes  an  instant,  for 
reply,  and  they  looked  into  Ruth  Ellerton's  with  a 
sort  of  appeal,  pathetically  brief.  Then  they  fell 
to  the  ground  again,  and  left  Mrs.  Ellerton  with  a 
helpless  desire  to  say  something  intimate  and  ten- 


THE  BUOVGHTON  HOUSE.  83 

der  to  her.  But  she  knew  the  time  had  not  yet 
come  for  that. 

"  You  have  very  pretty  roses  here,  Mrs.  Floyd," 
broke  in  Ellerton. 

Floyd  had  gone  into  the  cottage  for  another 
chair,  and  the  minister,  without  noticing  particu 
larly  the  opening  words  of  the  conversation  between 
his  wife  and  Mrs.  Floyd,  felt  that  the  tone  of  the 
talk  was  not  as  breezy  as  it  should  be. 

"Yes,  sir,"  replied  Mrs.  Floyd.  "They  were 
Aunt  Tryphena's."  This  time  she  did  not  raise 
her  eyes  at  all. 

Ellerton  went  on  persistently,  in  his  way, 
oblivious  of  her  reticence.  "  What  do  you  call 
these  white  ones,  with  the  pink-tipped  petals  ?  "  he 
demanded.  "I  don't  remember  that  I  ever  saw 
anything  like  them  before.  Have  you,  my  dear? 
Just  look  at  .them." 

They  turned  to  the  straggling  rosebush,  whose 
burden  of  late  roses  was  shaded  by  the  clump  of 
lilacs.  The  minister  picked  a  bud,  and  showed  to 
his  wife  the  exquisite  line  of  deep  pink  that  ran 
across  the  edge  of  each  petal. 

"  Lovely ! "  she  cried.     "  How  very  lovely  !  " 

"  Isn't  there  any  name  for  them,  Mi's.  Floyd?" 
he  repeated. 

"Well,  Aunt  Tryphena  used  to  call  them  the 
Smith  roses,"  she  answered,  slowly.  "  He  was  a 
missionary  to  foreign  parts,  and  planted  this  bush 
before  he  went  away." 


84  THE  BEOUGHTON  HOU&ti. 

"Indeed,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Ellerton,  rather 
vaguely. 

"  I  wonder  what  Smith  that  could  be,"  remarked 
the  minister,  reflectively.  "  There  was  a  Richard 
J.  Smith  who  went  from  somewhere  in  New  Eng 
land.  He  was  the  one  who  accomplished  such  a 
great  work  in  Ceylon,  you  remember." 

Neither  of  the  ladies  looked  as  if  they  did 
remember. 

"  Yes,  it  was  wonderful  what  that  man  went 
through.  If  it  was  Richard  J.  Smith,  and  he 
planted  the  bush  here  before  he  sailed,  it  is  very  — 
historic." 

He  hesitated  a  trifle  before  the  last  word,  and 
seemed  to  have  a  suspicion  that  his  ending  was 
somewhat  ineffective. 

Tryphena  Floyd  said  nothing.  Mrs.  Ellerton 
felt  that  in  spite  of  Arthur's  conversational  gifts, 
their  acquaintance  with  Mrs.  Floyd  was  not  pro 
gressing  rapidly.  By  this  time  the  artist  had 
brought  out  a  couple  more  chairs,  and  Ellerton 
turned  toward  him. 

"  Didn't  you  say  something  about  playing  whist  ?  " 

"  Inadvertently,"  replied  Floyd.  "  But  the  others 
are  not  yet  here." 

"  Ah  ?  Well  even  a  pastoral  call  ought  not  to 
break  up  a  whist-party,  I  suppose,"  laughed  Ellerton. 

Floyd  was  surprised  to  hear  such  tolerant  lan 
guage  from  the  parson. 

"  Do  you  play  ?  "  he  asked  at  a  venture. 


THE   lillOUGHTON   HOUSE.  85 

"  Xo,  not  since  my  college  days,"  responded 
Ellerton.  "  It  takes  too  much  time.  The  most 
I  have  done  in  that  direction  is  to  play  a  half- 
dozen  games  of  cribbage  with  my  wife.  And  I 
don't  know  that  eyen  that  would  be  regarded  in 
Broughton  as  being  very  ministerial,"  he  added, 
with  the  freedom  that  came  with  talking  to  people 
Avho  did  not  really  belong  in  town. 

«/  O 

u  My  dear,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Ellerton,  u  you 
must  be  careful  of  what  crimes  you  accuse  your 
self."  Arthur  was  so  careless  sometimes ! 

The  artist  was  watching  stealthily  the  gay  smile 
into  which  her  grave  features  lightened.  She 
turned  toward  him  suddenly,  before  he  could  look 
away. 

"Mr.  Sonderby  told  me  that  he  played  whist 
with  you  a  good  deal,"  she  said. 

fci  Yes,  he  plays  with  Phenie  —  with  Mrs.  Floyd, 
I  should  say  —  against  Collins  and  myself.  Do 
you  know  Collins  ?  " 

"  Xo,  I  do  not,"  replied  Mrs.  Ellerton. 

"  He's  coming  over  pretty  soon,"  the  artist  went 
on,  glancing  toward  the  Broughton  House.  "  He 
doesn't  have  much  to  do,  either,  in  this  lively  town. 
Don't  you  find  it  lively,  Mrs.  Ellerton  ?  '' 

She  did  not  like  the  tone  of  jocular  familiarity 
upon  which  he  had  just  ventured,  but  answered, 
smilingly : 

"  There  is  at  least  more  to  see  and  hear  now  than 
there  is  in  March  and  April.  It  certainly  is  not 


86  THE  KROUGHTON  HOUSE. 

very  lively  then.  But  I  should  think  the  quiet  of 
the  place,  and  the  beauty  of  it,  would  be  just  what 
you  would  most  like,  —  for  your  painting,  Mr. 
Floyd." 

She  spoke  the  last  rather  timidly ;  for  she  had 
rarely  met  a  veritable  artist  before,  and  did  not 
know  whether  she  ought  to  refer,  before  people,  to 
that  which  she  had  groAvn.  up  to  consider  a  great 
and  divine  gift. 

"  Why,  of  course,"  Floyd  began —  and  then  hes 
itated,  happening  to  discover  that  his  wife  was 
watching  him  with  that  impenetrable  look  of  hers. 
She  was  grateful  to  the  minister's  wife  for  those 
appreciative  words  about  Broughtori  —  "  the  quiet 
of  the  place,  and  the  beauty  of  it " —  and  wondered 
if  Floyd  would  say  the  same  things  to  this  deli 
cately  bred  woman  that  he  was  in  the  habit  of  say 
ing  to  herself. 

"  Of  course,"  Floyd  continued,  "  Broughton  is  a 
very  good  sketching-place.  I  have  made  a  great 
many  studies  here.  And  it  is  the  home  of  my 
wife."  He  did  not  look  at  his  wife  as  he  uttered 
this  gallant  sentiment,  or  he  might  have  detected 
upon  her  thin  upper  lip  a  line  he  well  knew. 

"  But  you  see,  Mrs.  Ellerton,  I  am  the  only  man 
who  comes  here  to  paint,  and  there  are  no  persons 
here  who  care  at  all  about  art — unless  the  pres 
ent  company  are  excepted,"  he  added,  awkwardly. 
u  There  must  be  a  sort  of  atmosphere  before  a  man 


THE  BROUGHTON  HOUSE.  87 

can  do  his  best  work  :  a  sort  of  —  "  and  he  stopped 
for  a  suitable  word. 

Mrs.  Floyd  leaned  back  in  her  rocking-chair.  It 
was  the  old  story  on  which  he  was  started,  after  all. 
For  once  in  her  life  she  interrupted  him  in  it. 

"  Perhaps,  Billy,  she  would  like  to  see  some  of 
the  things  you  have  been  doing.  And  Mr.  Eller- 
ton." 

fc%  Oh,  if  you  would  be  so  good,  Mr.  Floyd,''  cried 
Mrs.  Ellerton.  It  was  more  than  she  had  dared  to 
hope  for.  u  Would  it  be  very  much  trouble  ?  " 

Floyd  was  already  on  his  feet.  "  It  would  give 
me  the  greatest  of  pleasure,  Mrs.  Ellerton,"  he 
answered,  bowing  to  her  so  markedly  that  she 
found  herself  disconcerted  again,  and  almost  dis 
liking  him.  She  did  indeed  dislike  his  bony,  irregu 
lar  face,  his  small,  watery  eyes,  and  the  way  he 
stared  with  them ;  but  he  seemed,  except  for  that, 
gentlemanly  enough,  and  she  supposed  that  allow 
ances  must  be  made  for  artistic  eccentricities. 

He  came  back  presently,  bringing  an  armful  of 
canvases,  and  setting  up  his  easel  in  front  of  the 
door,  he  put  one  sketch  after  another  upon  it,  while 
Mrs.  Ellerton  watched  them  hungrily,  hardly  dar 
ing  to  make  any  comments  lest  she  should  say  the 
wrong  thing.  She  leaned  forward  from  her  seat 
on  the  bench,  holding  across  her  lap  in  both  hands 
her  best  lace  parasol;  her  husband  stood  behind 
her,  resting  one  hand  on  the  back  of  the  bench, 
and  making  gay  remarks  about  the  pictures  he 


88  THE  BKOUGHTON  HOUHE. 

liked  best.  Mrs.  Floyd  had  moved  her  rocking- 
chair  to  give  the  visitors  a  better  light,  and  did 
not  seem  to  follow  very  closely  the  succession  of 
the  studies  as  her  husband  explained  them.  There 
were  many  clever  things,  undoubtedly,  in  the  col 
lection,  and  they  showed  pretty  well  what  Floyd's 
artistic  experience  had  been. 

Most  of  them  had  been  done  either  in  Munich 
or  since  his  return,  and  Mrs.  Ellerton  recognized  — 
or  thought  she  did  —  some  of  the  qualities  which 
her  reading  had  taught  her  to  look  for  in  the  mod 
ern  Munich  school.  Mrs.  Ellerton  knew  the  names 
of  one  or  two  of  Floyd's  teachers ;  she  even  had 
at  the  parsonage  a  photograph  of  Defregger's  Ma 
donna,  and  when  she  had  summoned  up  her  cour 
age  she  began  to  ask  questions,  some  of  them  child 
ishly  simple,  others — relating  to  the  purposes  of 
modern  art  study,  and  the  ideals  of  the  Munich 
school  —  so  puzzling  that  he  could  not  answer,  nor 
indeed  really  understand  her. 

But  not  all  his  subjects  were  Munich  ones,  and 
she  was  glad  when  he  replaced  the  genre  sketches, 
with  their  monotonous  repetitions  of  earthen  and 
pewter  beer-mugs,  bread  and  cheese  and  radishes, 
and  the  charcoal  studies  in  composition,  by  some 
memorials  of  an  Easter  trip  to  Venice.  There 
were  bits  of  landscape  here  that  were  really  admi 
rable  for  their  atmospheric  quality,  especially  some 
water-colors  done  at  the  Lido  and  out  at  Torcello. 
The  scenes  in  Venice  itself  were  not  so  good,  — 


THE  BROUGHTON   HOUSE.  89 

the  architecture  being  noticeably  weak,  —  but  the 
Avater  and  the  sky  and  the  boats  were  almost  always 
capital. 

When  Mrs.  Ellerton  praised  these  things  particu 
larly,  Floyd  brought  out  two  or  three  finished  pic 
tures,  painted  on  the  Long  Island  shore  since  his 
return,  and  finally  he  produced  a  portfolio  contain 
ing  some  of  his  Broughton  sketches.  Many  of 
these  were  of  familiar  objects  along  Main  Street, 
and  were  quickly  recognized,  to  Floyd's  secret 
pleasure.  There  was  one  of  the  Broughton  House 
piazza,  the  perspective  all  askew,  but  with  a  felici 
tous  representation  of  Bill  Trumbull  asleep  in  his 
chair  in  the  foreground.  There  were  two  or  three 
of  the  whist  quartette,  in  the  act  of  playing;  but 
these  were  barely  more  than  caricatures. 

"Why,  who  is  that?"  suddenly  cried  Mrs.  Eller 
ton.  Floyd  was  trying  to  get  the  best  light  for 
a  tiny  canvas  on  which  a  man's  head  had  been 
painted  in  oils. 

"Can't  you  guess?"  said  Mrs.  Floyd.  "I  tell 
Billy  that  it  is  the  best  thing  he  has  done  this 
summer." 

It  was  a  square,  bearded  face,  with  unmistak 
able  power  in  the  heavy  jaw  and  firm-set  mouth. 

"  Why  it  must  be  —  it  is  —  Mr.  Sonderby,  isn't 
it?"  asked  Mrs.  Ellerton,  slowly. 

Floyd  smiled  triumphantly. 

Mrs.  Ellerton  reached  out  her  hand,  took  the 
head  and  scrutinized  it.  There  was  a  massiveness 


90  THE  BROUQHTON  HOUSE. 

and  dignity  in  the  portrait  which  surprised  her,  so 
out  of  keeping  was  it  with  most  of  Floyd's  work. 

"  How  long  did  it  take  you  to  do  this  ?  "  she 
asked.  She  felt  that  she  ought  to  say  something, 
and  yet  she  did  not  wish  to  tell  Floyd  what  was 
in  her  mind. 

"  Oh,  three  or  four  hours,  one  Sunday  morning," 
he  answered,  carelessly;  then  remembered  he  was 
talking  to  the  parson's  wife,  and  felt  rather 
abashed. 

She  did  not  seem  to  notice  the  latter  part  of  his 
remark,  but  contented  herself  with  saying : 

"  I  think  it  is  remarkably  good,  Mr.  Floyd ;  I  have 
never  seen  just  that  look  in  Mr.  Sonderby's  face, 
—  I  know  him  so  little  —  but,  —  "  and  her  voice 
fell  a  little,  —  "I  suppose  an  artist  sees  the  best  that 
is  in  a  face  —  the  strongest  and  noblest  features  — 
and  tries  to  make  these  permanent.  I  was  reading 
the  other  day  what  Walt  Whitman  says  about  Lin 
coln  :  that  there  was  in  his  eyes  a  deep,  latent  sad 
ness  beneath  his  smile,  that  none  of  the  artists 
caught  the  whole  expression  of  his  face,  and  that 
one  of  the  great  portrait-painters  of  two  or  three 
centuries  ago  was  needed." 

Floyd  watched  her  attentively,  though  he  really 
was  noting  the  exquisite  color  in  her  cheeks  and 
the  gray  of  her  eyes  more  than  what  she  was  say 
ing.  He  had  never  heard  of  Whitman,  and  hardly 
knowing  what  answer  to  make,  caught  at  her  clos 
ing  words. 


THE  BEOUGHTON  HOUSE.  91 

"  The  old  masters,"  he  said,  somewhat  flip 
pantly. 

"  Yes  ;  Holbein,  for  instance." 

She  mentioned  two  pictures  by  Holbein,  in  the 
Munich  Gallery,  which  she  knew  well  enough 
through  prints.  To  her  bewilderment,  Floyd 
seemed  not  to  be  acquainted  with  them. 

"  We  don't  care  much  for  those  old  fellows,"  he 
explained.  "  Of  course  it's  all  very  Avell  if  you've 
got  time  enough  ;  but  there  is  so  much  to  learn  in 
the  modern  schools  nowadays.  There's  the  Salon, 
for  instance ;  if  you  want  to  know  how  to  paint, 
there's  the  place  to  see  how  it's  done,  instead  of 
bothering  your  head  over  those  old  cracked  and 
dirty  pictures  —  the  Lord  only  knows  who  painted 
them  —  in  the  Pinacothek." 

Against  this  she  rebelled. 

"  But  surely  if  Holbein  were  alive  now  and  were 
to  send  a  portrait  to  the  Salon,  every  one  would 
see  the  difference." 

"  Oh,  a  difference,  of  course,"  he  admitted,  with 
a  patronizing  smile.  "But  that  isn't  saying  that 
it  would  be  any  better,  is  it  ?  " 

Obviously,  Holbein's  name  meant  nothing  to 
him.  But  before  she  could  answer,  there  was  a 
rustle  in  the  lilac  bushes  behind  her,  and  she 
turned  to  see  a  solidly  built  man  of  thirty-five, 
bareheaded,  with  a  dark,  oval,  handsome  face, 
step  into  the  group,  having  crossed  by  a  short  cut 
from  the  hotel.  He  threw  away  his  cigar  as  he 


92  THE  BEOUGHTON  HOUSE. 

recognized  the  strangers.  Mrs.  Floycl  introduced 
him  to  the  Ellertons  as  Mr.  Collins. 

"  Having  another  exhibition,  Floyd  ?  "  asked  the 
newcomer,  seating  himself  upon  the  artist's  sketch 
ing-stool,  which  stood  near  Ellerton's  chair. 

"  Yes." 

"  Sorry  to  have  missed  it,"  replied  Collins,  with 
a  tranquillity  of  tone  which  implied  that  his  regrets 
were  not  to  be  taken  too  seriously. 

"Did  you  go  down  to  the  Hollow?"  inquired 
Mrs.  Floyd. 

"  Yes,  I've  been  there  again.  He  rose  twice  to 
day,  but  wouldn't  touch  anything." 

"Mr.  Collins  is  a  great  fisherman,"  explained 
Mrs.  Floyd. 

"  There's  a  big  trout  down  in  the  Hollow," 
Collins  went  on,  turning  politely  to  Mrs.  Ellerton, 
without  noticing  Mrs.  Floyd's  interpolation,  "and 
I  have  a  try  at  him  almost  every  day  now.  He's 
a  queer  fellow,  and  he  never  rises  at  anything  ex 
cept  in  the  most  unlikely  time  of  the  day.  I  used 
to  go  down  there  before  breakfast  and  after  supper, 
but  now  I'm  trying  him  after  dinner,  and  on  the 
shiniest,  hottest  days  I  can  find.  He's  a  contrary 
one,  I  can  tell  you." 

Mrs.  Ellerton  smiled  appreciatively.  She  liked 
his  deep,  resonant  voice,  and  the  deliberate,  self- 
contained  way  he  had  of  talking. 

"  My  husband  will  be  interested  in  your  efforts," 
she  said.  "  He  is  fond  of  fishing,  too." 


THE  BROUGHTOX  HOUSE.  93 

Collins  turned  his  dark  eyes  scrutinizingly  upon 
the  minister,  as  if  to  see  whether  he  were  worthy 
of  being  admitted  into  the  guild  of  sportsmen. 

"  I  think  we  met  down  near  Calvin  Johnson's  a 
while  ago,"  Ellerton  remarked ;  then  added,  with 
a  frank  laugh,  u  I  suppose  you  w^ere  sorry  to  see 
me ;  I  certainly  was  to  see  you." 

Collins  twinkled;  the  parson  did  not  seem  to 
be  such  a  bad  fellow. 

"  The  Johnson  brook  has  been  poor  this  year," 
he  replied.  u  There  was  too  much  high  water 
until  that  day  we  were  there.  I  took  three  or  four 
pounds  out  of  the  meadow,  though ;  but  you  had 
the  start  of  me  in  the  woods." 

"  Yes ;  I  got  about  forty  there,  most  of  them 
little  ones.  By  the  way,"-  — and  Ellerton  lowered 
his  voice  a  little,  as  befitted  the  discussion  of  the 
secrets  of  their  craft,  —  "I  noticed  that  you  were 
using  a  white  fly  that  day.  Did  you  try  that  in 
the  woods  at  all?" 

Collins  hitched  his  stool  a  trifle  nearer  to  Eller 
ton. 

"Well,  I  don't  remember  about  that.  I  use  a 
worm  in  the  woods  a  good  deal.  I've  just  got  a 
new  book  of  flies  this  afternoon,"  reaching  for  his 
inside  pocket ;  "  don't  you  want  to  take  a  look  at 
them?" 

"  If  Mrs.  Floyd  will  allow  us,"  assented  Ellerton. 
It  was  exactly  what  he  had  wished  for. 

"That's  all   right,"   Mrs.    Floyd   answered,  in- 


94  THE  BROUGHTON  HOUSE. 

differently.     "  Billy,  haven't  you  anything  else  to 
show  Mrs.  Ellerton  ?  " 

"  Oh,  you  have  been  so  good,  Mr.  Floyd,"  ex 
claimed  Mrs.  Ellerton,  "  you  mustn't  give  yourself 
any  more  trouble.  But  it  has  been  such  a  treat 
to  me." 

"I  haven't  much  else  here  —  except  this,"  the 
artist  answered,  as  he  placed  upon  the  easel  the 
picture  of  the  old  mill,  done  a  couple  of  mornings 
before.  Opening  his  penknife  he  scraped  off  care 
fully  a  few  grass-seeds  that  had  blown  against  the 
fresh  paint  and  had  dried  on. 

"  Do  you  remember  it?  "  he  asked. 

Mrs.  Ellerton  took  a  long  look  at  the  canvas 
through  her  gloved  hand,  as  if  it  were  a  glass. 

"Why,  the  landscape  seems  perfectly  familiar  — 
it  is  the  view  from  the  North  Broughton  road, 
behind  the  parsonage,  isn't  it  ?  " 

"  Correct." 

"But  the  details  — the  mill  — I  don't  think  I 
have  ever  seen  that  —  have  I  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  not ;  it  is  a  little  off  the  road.  I  was 
down  there  the  other  morning,  and  saw  you  setting 
out  some  plants  as  I  went  by." 

"  Oh,  yes  —  it  was  Tuesday  ?    Or  Wednesday  ?  " 

"  Thursday,"  said  Mrs.  Floyd,  quietly. 

Floyd  did  not  reply,  but  Mrs.  Ellerton  detected 
a  scowl  on  his  face,  as  he  suddenly  picked  up  the 
pictures.  She  feared  she  had  not  shown  enough 
attention  to  the  last  one. 


THE  BROUGHTON  HOUSE.  95 

"Please  may  I  see  that  one  moment  more?" 
she  asked,  taking  it  in  her  hands.  u  Oh,  here  are 
the  houses  along  Main  Street,  and  the  parsonage, 
too  !  "  she  cried,  delightedly.  kk  Isn't  your  cottage 
here?  You  must  like  so  much  to  put  that  in  if 
you  can.  It  must  be  charming  to  paint  your  own 
home.  No,  there  is  nothing  but  the  Broughton 
House,"  she  decided,  in  disappointment. 

"  You  must  admit  that  the  Broughton  House  is 
much  the  more  prominent  object  in  the  landscape, 
Mrs.  Ellerton,"  replied  Floyd,  fluently. 

"  Yes  ;  but  don't  you  think  it  is  ugly  ?  The  cot 
tage  is  such  a  beautiful  old  place  that  I  should 
think  you  would  like  to  paint  it  for  its  own  sake. 
And  you  have  left  it  quite  out.'' 

"  Perhaps  he  thought  that  the  two  didn't  go 
well  together,"  suggested  Mrs.  Floyd,  doubtfully. 
"  One  thing  sort  o'  kills  another,  sometimes." 

Floyd  was  busy  strapping  up  his  sketches,  with 
his  back  turned  to  his  wife,  and  made  no  reply. 

"My  dear,"  called  out  Arthur  Ellerton,  sud 
denly,  "  Mr.  Collins  is  going  to  show  me  some  of 
his  tips,  over  at  the  hotel ;  we  shall  be  back  in  a 
couple  of  minutes.  Will  you  excuse  us,  Mrs. 
Floyd?" 

The  latter  nodded,  and  the  gentlemen  slipped 
away.  Mrs.  Ellerton  was  just  a  trifle  annoyed. 
Arthur  was  so  forgetful  of  conventionalities  some 
times  !  There  he  was  making  a  first  call,  and  ex 
cusing  himself  because  he  wanted  to  see  some 


96  THE  BROUGHTON  HOUSE. 

bamboo  fishing-rods.  Yet  she  was  glad  to  have 
him  enjoy  himself,  and  find  a  congenial  spirit  in 
Mr.  Collins :  it  was  not  every  day  that  Arthur 
could  talk  about  out-of-door  sports  without  being 
misunderstood,  the  dear  hard-working  boy ! 

While  Floyd  Avas  carrying  his  pictures  and  easel 
into  the  cottage,  the  women  were  left  alone.  Ruth 
Ellerton  started  one  subject  of  conversation  after 
another,  but  with  slight  success.  The  hostess 
seemed  shy ;  and  though  she  replied  to  Mrs.  El- 
lerton's  questions  straightforwardly  enough,  there 
was  a  peculiar  terseness,  almost  curtness,  in  her 
brief  answers,  that  made  her  seem  non-communi 
cative.  She  made  it  easy  for  one  to  infer,  too, 
that  prevailing  standards  meant  little  to  her,  and 
yet  she  gave  this  impression  more  through  her 
tone  than  through  her  words,  for  what  she  ac 
tually  said  was  commonplace  enough. 

Floyd  did  not  reappear  for  a  while ;  Ellerton's 
couple  of  minutes  had  lengthened  to  ten  or  fifteen ; 
and  Mrs.  Ellerton  felt  as  if  her  call  had  already 
grown  into  what  the  Broughton  people  would  call 
a  visit,  and  that  even  the  latter  was  extending 
itself  to  unfit  proportions.  She  was  heartily  glad 
when  she  saw  John  Sonderby  enter  at  the  front 
gate.  If  her  husband  would  only  come,  the  quar 
tette  could  be  left  to  their  whist ;  in  the  meantime 
the  school-teacher's  appearance  would  bring  a  new 
feature  into  the  conversation. 

Sonderby   came    down    the    walk    deliberately, 


THE  BPOUGHTOy  HOUSE.  97 

planting  his  feet  solidly  at  every  step,  as  was  his 
custom.  He  pulled  off  his  straw  hat  as  he  caught 
sight  of  Mrs.  Ellerton,  and  shook  hands  with  her 
somewhat  formally,  nodding  to  Mrs.  Floyd  as  he 
did  so. 

*4  You're  very  late,  Mr.  Sonderby,''  said  Try- 
phena  Floyd. 

"I  know  it,"  was  the  reply;  4*  I've  been  trying 
to  work  out  something  at  the  academy." 

"  Did  you  get  it  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Ellerton,  eagerly, 
not  having  the  remotest  idea  what  *'  it "  was,  ex 
cept  that  Sonderby  was  interested  in  physics  and 
spent  some  of  his  time  over  the  apparatus  at  the 
academy. 

"  Yes,"  he  replied,  looking  straight  at  her. 

"I  knew  you  would,'*  she  cried;  then  blushed 
to  think  that  she  had  betrayed  what  was  in  her 
mind.  Unconsciously  it  had  flashed  over  her  as 
he  spoke,  that  a  man  with  John  Sonderby *s  square- 
set  face  would  get  whatever  he  set  out  to  get. 

The  school-teacher  made  no  answer,  though  a 
puzzled  smile  crept  into  the  corners  of  his  eyes 
and  mouth,  as  he  saw  Mrs.  Ellerton's  heightened 
color.  A  quicker  man  would  have  said  something 
graceful,  but  John  Sonderby  had  never  had  much 
practice  in  saying  graceful  things  to  women.  He 
sat  down  upon  the  bench,  and  leaning  forward, 
began  to  fan  himself  with  his  hat. 

"  Where  is  Collins  ?  "  he  asked  of  Mrs.  Floyd, 

"  Over  at  the  hotel." 


98  THE  BEOUGHTON  HOUSE. 

"  Didn't  he  come  ?  " 

She  nodded.  "  He's  gone  over  to  show  his  rods 
to  Mr.  Ellerton." 

"  Oh." 

There  was  a  pause.  Then  Sonderby  changed 
his  hat  into  his  other  hand,  and  turned  to  Mrs. 
Ellerton,  who  was  seated  at  the  opposite  end  of 
the  bench. 

"  Have  you  seen  the  pictures  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Indeed  I  have,"  was  the  enthusiastic  answer. 
"  Mr.  Floyd  was  so  kind !  I  can't  tell  you  how 
much  I  enjoyed  it." 

The  last  sentence  was  addressed  as  much  to  Mrs. 
Floyd  as  to  the  school-teacher,  and  it  was  the 
former  who  answered : 

"  Billy  likes  to  show  them." 

"  I  should  think  he  might,"  said  Mrs.  Ellerton, 
appreciatively.  Then  she  remembered  that  during 
that  evening  at  the  parsonage,  Sonderby  had  spoken 
of  Floyd's  fondness  for  talking  about  his  work,  and 
she  was  struck  by  the  similarity  of  the  tone  in 
which  both  these  persons  had  commented  upon  the 
fact.  She  did  not  quite  like  Mrs.  Floyd's  way  of 
speaking:  there  was  too  little  reverence  in  it  for 
the  husband's  art. 

"  It  must  be  a  wonderful  pleasure  to  you,  Mrs. 
Floyd,"  she  said,  "to  see  these  beautiful  things 
growing  under  your  eyes,  and  to  feel  that  you  have 
a  part  in  them." 

"  Yes  ?  "     There  was  an  appreciable  rising  inflec- 


THE  BROVGHTON  HOUSE.  99 

tion  in  Tiyphena's  voice,  enough  to  puzzle  Mrs. 
Ellerton. 

"  Were  you  abroad  with  your  husband?  '' 

"  Xo."     She  did  not  even  look  up. 

"  That  would  have  been  so  delightful,  —  to  be 
there  together, — would  it  not?  Don't  you  think 

so,  Mr.  Sonderby?" 

u  Oh,  yes,"  exclaimed  Sonderby,  hastily. 

ki  Perhaps  he  will  feel  like  going  again  some 
time.  Mr.  Ellerton  and  I  want  to  go  so  much.'' 

Mrs.  Floyd  made  no  response,  except  to  twist 
tighter  about  her  slender  fingers  the  cheap  black- 
bordered  handkerchief  that  was  in  her  lap.  Son 
derby  fanned  himself  persistently. 

Mrs.  Ellerton  discovered  that  she  was  almost 
provoked.  Of  all  hard  people  to  talk  to,  these  two 
were  certainly  the  hardest.  If  Arthur  were  only 
there ! 

She  could  not  know  that  underneath  Sonderby 's 
stolid  manner  there  was  hidden  almost  a  nervous 
desire  that  she  and  Mrs.  Floyd  might  get  on  well 
together.  He  was  anxious  that  these  two  women 
should  not  misunderstand  each  other,  so  different 
as  they  were.  Ever  since  his  evening  at  the  par 
sonage  he  had  been  wishing1  that  they  might  meet, 
that  they  might  be  friends.  There  they  were  at 
his  side:  and  though  he  felt  that  he  understood 
each  one  of  them,  somewhat,  he  instinctively  saw 
that  they  were  making  no  progress  toward  mutual 
acquaintance,  and  that  he  was  not  helping  them. 


100  THE  BEOUGHTON  HOUSE. 

Mrs.  Floyd  was  in  one  of  her  silent  moods,  which 
seemed  to  Sonderby  to  have  increased  within  the 
past  few  days,  and  which  appeared  beyond  reach  of 
any  conversational  artifices  that  the  school-teacher 
possessed.  Mrs.  Ellerton  was  glancing  furtively 
toward  the  hotel,  hoping  that  her  husband  might 
be  coming.  Sonderby  racked  his  brain  for  some 
thing  to  talk  about,  then  remembered  that  she  had 
asked  him  a  question  about  etching,  the  previous 
Saturday,  which  he  could  not  then  answer. 

"  Oh,"  he  exclaimed,  "  I  have  looked  up  that 
matter  about  the  preparation  of  the  plates  for  dry- 
points,  and  I  think  we  were  both  right,  in  part." 
And  he  proceeded,  to  Mrs.  Ellerton's  great  relief, 
to  give  a  detailed  and  careful  explanation  of  the 
process  in  question.  But  part  of  the  time  she  was 
only  pretending  to  listen ;  she  was  really  thinking 
of  Floyd's  portrait  of  Sonderby,  and  whether  it 
was  stronger  than  his  face  actually  was,  and  what 
was  his  place  in  this  Broughton  House  quartette, 
whose  acquaintance  she  was  making. 

She  had  been  suspecting  all  along  that  he  was 
of  finer  grain  than  the  others,  and  that  they  were 
not  doing  him  any  good.  Yet  she  had  found  Col 
lins  exceedingly  agreeable  ;  and  though  she  hardly 
liked  Floyd,  she  was  sure  that  his  artist  qualities 
must  be  the  result  of  some  high  and  noble  strain 
in  him,  which  she  had  not  sufficiently  taken  into 
account,  else  how  could  he  have  such  appreciation 
of  the  lovely  things  in  the  world  ?  She  could  even 


THE  BROUGHTOX  HOUSE.  101 

almost  forgive  his  ignorance  of  Holbein.  As 
for  Mrs.  Floyd,  the  minister's  wife  felt  a  tender 
ness  for  her  in  her  evident  bereavement,  and  a  pity 
for  her  shyness ;  but  she  was  irritated  that  Mrs. 
Floyd's  talk  should  be  so  unsympathetic,  and  she 
wondered  why  John  Sonderby  seemed  to  know  the 
artist's  wife  so  well,  and  what  sort  of  an  influence 
the  latter  was  likely  to  have  over  him.  Ruth  Eller- 
ton  was  a  woman,  as  well  as  a  minister's  wife. 

Just  as  Sonderby  was  finishing  his  explanation, 
Floyd  joined  the  group,  and  a  few  moments  after 
Ellerton  and  Collins  came  strolling  over  from  the 
hotel,  the  latter  with  a  fresh  cigar  in  his  ringers. 
They  had  had  a  glorious  fishing  talk,  ranging  from 
the  trout-brooks  of  Ellerton's  boyhood,  in  Western 
Pennsylvania,  up  to  the  great  salmon  of  the  Resti- 
gouche  and  the  St.  John,  where  Collins  had  fished 
repeatedly. 

Mrs.  Ellerton  rose  at  once,  and  her  husband 
pulled  out  his  watch,  and  then  laughed. 

u  Excuse  me,  my  dear,''  he  cried.  ••  A  whole 
half-hour!  Well,  I  declare!  Mrs.  Floyd,  will 
you  pardon  me  for  running  away?  " 

Mrs.  Floyd,  who  had  risen  too,  smiled  at  him. 
She  could  understand  the  voluble,  cheery  young 
fellow  so  much  better  than  she  could  his  wife,  who 
seemed,  in  some  way,  off  up  above  her.  The  ladies 
shook  hands.  Then  Ellerton  stepped  forward  in 
his  turn,  and  while  Mrs.  Floyd  put  out  her  hand 
to  him  —  much  less  timidly  than  she  had  extended 


102  THE  BEOUGHTON  HOUSE. 

it  a  moment  before  to  take  the  daintily  gloved 
hand  of  his  wife  —  he  seemed  to  remember  his 
pastoral  function,  and  said  something  about  the 
church,  turning  to  Floyd  likewise  as  he  spoke,  but 
not  changing  his  key  at  all,  and  referring  to  a 
church  service  as  simply  as  he  had  to  a  fishing-rod. 
That  was  a  part  of  the  charm  of  Arthur  Ellerton. 

Sonderby  happened  to  be  standing  by  Mrs. 
Ellerton,  and  in  the  moment  of  waiting  she  turned 
to  him. 

"  Have  you  decided  about  next  winter  ?  "  she 
asked. 

"  No,"  he  answered,  bluntly.  "  The  truth  is," 
and  his  small  blue  eyes  looked  squarely  into  her 
great  gray  ones,  u  I  can't  decide.  I  don't  know 
but  I'm  letting  the  summer  decide  for  me.  And  — 
do  you  think  it  makes  much  difference,  anyway, 
where  a  man  is  ?  " 

"  Oh,  it  does  make  a  difference !  "  she  exclaimed, 
with  a  troubled  voice.  "  You  mustn't  think  that 
it  doesn't ! " 

"  Come,  my  dear,"  interrupted  Ellerton,  gaily. 
"  We  have  effectually  broken  up  the  whist-party, 
I  fear.  Next  Monday  then,  we  will  say,  Mr.  Col 
lins,  at  five  sharp.  Good  afternoon,  all." 

The  others  bowed. 

"  Pardon  me,  madam,"  cried  Collins,  as  he  took 
a  quick  step  forward  and  snapped  a  big  rose-bug 
deftly  from  Mrs.  EllertorTs  collar;  "  but  you  were 
carrying  away  something  from  the  premises." 


THE  SBOUGHTOy  HOUSE.  103 

She  thanked  him,  and  under  cover  of  a  general 
laugh,  the  Ellertons  withdrew. 

Floyd  stood  looking  at  Mrs.  Ellerton's  tall  fig 
ure  as  she  disappeared.  He  had  seen  the  crawling 
rose-bug  sooner  than  Collins,  and  might  have  had 
the  smiling  thanks  himself,  if  he  had  not  hesitated. 
Confound  it,  but  she  was  a  superb  woman  for  a 
parson's  wife,  and  how  she  had  praised  his  pic 
tures  !  Women  like  that  could  appreciate  him. 

"Well,"  said  Collins,  "how  about  that  whist?" 

"  There's  time  for  half  a  dozen  hands,"  replied 
Sonderby,  looking  at  his  watch.  Mrs.  Floyd  had 
already  placed  her  rocking-chair  at  the  table,  on  the 
opposite  side  from  the  bench.  Sonderby  pulled  off 
his  coat,  and  spreading  it  over  the  bench  for  a  cush 
ion  sat  down  to  play  as  her  partner,  looking  very 
comfortable  in  his  gray  flannel  shirt. 

"It's  your  deal,  Floyd,"  Collins  remarked; 
"remember  we  have  the  lead  now,"  and  he  pro 
duced  the  well-used  markers. 

But  Floyd  seemed  to  be  out  of  temper,  for  some 
reason  or  other,  and  made  a  misdeal. 


V. 


FIVE  o'clock  of  the  next  Monday  morning,  how 
ever,  did  not  see  Collins  and  Ellerton  starting  upon 
their  fishing  excursion.  It  witnessed,  instead,  a 
downpour  of  rain  so  persistent  and  heavy  that  it 
put  even  trout-fishing  out  of  the  question.  The 
rain  had  indeed  begun  upon  Saturday  afternoon, 
shortly  after  the  stage  had  brought  an  unusually 
full  quota  of  strangers  to  the  Broughton  House. 
A  few  drops  fell  before  the  mail  was  distributed. 

Bill  Trumbull,  standing  at  the  southeast  corner 
of  the  hotel  piazza,  and  slowly  surveying  the  dif 
ferent  points  of  the  compass,  was  surrounded  by 
a  group  of  the  newcomers,  anxious  to  learn  the 
probabilities.  It  is  curious  how  soon  strangers  in 
a  New  England  town  will  detect  the  most  weather- 
wise  natives,  and  how  respectfully  they  will  accept 
whatever  decisions  the  experienced  weather  proph 
ets  condescend  to  give  them.  Bill  Trumbull  had 
watched  New  England  weather  too  long,  and  was 
too  old  a  hotel  man,  to  be  over-positive  in  his  dec 
larations  as  to  the  weather  in  store  for  Sunday ; 
but  beneath  his  cabalistic  remarks  about  "a  wet 
moon,"  and  the  "  wind  backin'  'round,"  there  was 
certainly  revealed  a  conviction  that  they  were  "  in 
for  a  wet  spell." 
104 


THE  BROUGHTOX  HOUSE.  105 

"You  see,"  he  remarked,  benevolently,  point 
ing  with  his  pipe  toward  the  gray  folds  of  cloud 
that  were  steadily  wrapping  themselves  around  the 
southern  and  eastern  hills,  "the  wind  is  settin' 
right  from  the  west,  just  as  it  has  ben  all  day. 
But  those  'ere  clouds  to  the  east'ard  keep  a  comin' 
up  all  the  same,  'n  when  you  git  the  wind  comin' 
up  one  way,  and  the  rain  comin'  up  the  opposite, 
—  at  least  'round  here,  —  yes  ma'am,  I'm  a-pointin' 
toward  the  east  —  why,  then  the  rain  never  stops 
till  the  Lord  stops  it." 

Sure  enough,  by  supper-time  there  was  a  spiteful 
shower,  which  whipped  tiny  branches  from  the 
elms  all  along  the  street,  laid  the  thick  July  dust, 
and  freshened  the  grass  wonderfully.  But  after 
the  shower  had  passed,  there  were  no  signs  of 
clearer  weather,  and  a  fine  rain  kept  falling  as  it 
grew  dark.  Evans  glided  around  the  piazza,  among 
his  guests,  and  promised  them  better  things  for  the 
morrow,  in  spite  of  the  opinion  expressed  by  Bill 
Trumbull,  between  whom  and  Evans  no  love  was 
lost  as  time  went  by.  Trumbull  watched  Evans 
now  with  some  amazement,  and  confided  to  Collins 
his  sarcastic  opinion  of  the  Welshman's  knowl 
edge  of  Broughton  weather. 

Notwithstanding  the  dampness,  the  whist  quar 
tette  played  for  a  while  upon  the  middle  of  the 
piazza,  in  the  light  of  the  reflector.  It  grew 
chilly  finally,  and  when  Mrs.  Floyd  had  coughed 
once  or  twice,  Sonderby  proposed  that  they  should 


106  THE  I3ROUGHTON  HOUSE. 

go  into  the  office,  where  there  was  a  big  blaze  in 
the  fireplace.  Trumbull  was  in  his  accustomed 
seat,  telling  fish  stories  to  a  gentleman  who  had 
come  up  that  afternoon.  A  lady  with  eyeglasses 
was  inspecting  the  adornments  of  the  office,  more 
particularly  the  portrait  of  Daniel  Webster,  and 
the  map  of  the  county  roads. 

Mrs.  Floyd  seated  herself  in  one  of  the  hospitable 
wooden  chairs  by  the  fire,  and  extended  her  feet  as 
near  as  she  dared  to  the  burning  maple  logs.  The 
school-teacher  sat  next  her,  while  Floyd  and  Collins 
filled  their  pipes  and  listened  —  the  latter  for  the 
twentieth  time  —  to  the  account  Bill  was  giving  of 
the  way  he  and  his  younger  brother  had  once  taken 
twenty-five  pounds  of  trout  in  one  day  out  of  the 
Johnson  brook.  It  Avas  before  the  war  that  this 
famous  fishing  occurred,  and  with  each  year  Bill's 
narration  of  it  grew  more  thrilling  and  richer  in 
detail.  The  stranger  absorbed  it  eagerly,  and  once 
or  twice  when  the  tale  reached  a  situation  so  re 
markable  as  almost  to  appear  unveracious,  Bill 
Trumbull  turned  gravely  to  Collins  for  confirma 
tion,  which  Collins's  own  experiences  seemed  per 
fectly  adapted  to  supply.  The  "  Broughton  House  " 
stopped  with  the  piazza  and  the  new  part,  after  all ; 
here  in  the  office  the  atmosphere  was  still  that  of 
"  Trumbull's."  A  sort  of  miraculous  air  it  was,  in 
which  every  listener  breathed  in  a  predisposition  to 
faith,  and  where  the  veriest  sceptic  might  be  con 
vinced  by  simply  pointing  out  the  indubitable  length 


THE  BBOUGHTOX  HOUSE.  107 

of  certain  trout  cut  as  an  imperishable  sign  upon 
the  oak  mantel-piece. 

But  suppose  one  does  not  care  for  any  of  these 
things  ?  Suppose  the  person  sitting  in  *4  Trum- 
bull's  "  is  a  woman,  looking  back  upon  an  isolated 
childhood,  an  ignorant  girlhood,  an  unsatisfying 
marriage ;  a  woman  with  strong  yet  variable  im 
pulses,  with  yearning  affections,  and  an  empty 
heart ;  a  woman  looking  forward  to  the  great  crisis 
of  her  life  ?  Or  suppose  the  person  is  a  man,  like 
wise  with  a  lonely  youth  behind  him.  a  man  power 
fully  moulded  in  mind  as  well  as  body,  but  never 
brought  under  the  dominion  of  an  inspiring  pur 
pose  ;  a  man  whose  best  years  had  been  selfish,  sol 
itary  ones,  who  is  touched  at  last  by  a  profound 
solicitude  for  a  woman  whose  deepest  grief  he  can 
only  guess  at,  and  toward  whom  he  can  ill  define 
his  own  feeling,  save  that  he  wonders  if  the  feeling, 
whatever  it  may  be,  is  stronger  than  his  will  ? 

For  persons  like  these,  "  Trumbull's "  can  do 
nothing.  They  may  sit  there  side  by  side,  and  gaze 
steadily  into  the  glowing  mass  of  maple  embers, 
while  the  flame  plays  on  their  faces  :  they  may  well 
see  strange  shapes  and  forms  of  things  deep  down 
in  the  glowing  innermost  heart  of  the  burning 
coals,  and  the  fire  may  whisper  to  them  and  answer 
their  mute  questionings,  perhaps ;  but  they  will  not 
hear  any  of  Bill  Trumbuirs  fishing-stories. 

"  Phenie,"  Floyd  had  to  cry  at  last,  k-  Collins  is 
speaking  to  you." 


108  THE  BROUGHTON  HOUSE. 

Mrs.  Floyd  started  and  looked  around  at  her 
husband.  The  stranger  and  the  lady  with  eye 
glasses  had  gone.  Collins  was  rapping  the  ashes 
out  of  his  pipe. 

"  Want  to  sing?  "  he  asked. 

"  Oh,  yes,  if  Mr.  Evans  won't  put  us  out ;  it's 
too  cold  over  at  the  cottage,  and  I'd  rather  stay 
here.  But  I'm  not  sure  that  the  people  who  have 
just  come  will  appreciate  our  singing,  Mr.  Col 
lins." 

She  spoke  more  than  she  commonly  did,  as  if  to 
make  up  for  her  inattention  at  the  beginning. 

"  Well,  they'll  have  to  get  used  to  it,"  drawled 
Collins,  rising.  "  And  Evans  won't  put  us  out. 
Will  he,  Bill?" 

Trumbull  chuckled.     "I  guess  not." 

"  Come  on,  Sonderby,"  said  Collins,  as  the  trio 
crossed  the  hall  to  enter  the  little  old  parlor,  where 
stood  a  battered,  yellow-keyed  melodeon. 

"  No,"  replied  Sonderby,  without  taking  his  eyes 
off  the  fire,  "  I  think  I'll  stay  here." 

Trumbull  refilled  his  pipe,  silently.  He  never 
went  into  the  parlor  of  the  hotel  nowadays. 

Collins  seated  himself  at  the  melodeon,  Avith  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Floyd  standing  on  either  side,  and  began 
to  turn  over  the  leaves  of  a  song-book.  He  knew 
enough  about  music  to  play  his  own  accompani 
ments  fairly  well,  and  he  could  sing  a  magnificent 
bass,  of  sensuous  richness  and  remarkable  compass, 
though  he  was  not  always  strictly  on  the  key. 


THE  BEOUGHTQy  HOUSE.  109 

He  was  passionately  fond  of  singing,  and  had 
persuaded  the  others  to  keep  him  company,  though 
they  did  not  add  much  to  the  musical  value  of  the 
performance.  Mrs.  Floyd  could  carry  the  air 
pretty  well,  after  she  had  learned  it,  and  Floyd 
was  trying  to  persuade  himself,  after  having  disas 
trously  failed  to  persuade  the  others,  that  he  could 
sing  tenor.  Sonderby  sometimes  stood  up  with 
them,  not  caring  to  shut  himself  out  of  the  circle, 
and  chased  the  air  a  little,  an  octave  below,  but  he 
had  no  illusion  as  to  the  nature  of  his  success. 

But  to-night  Sonderby  kept  staring  at  the  fire, 
while  the  trio  sang  one  song  after  another.  Collins 
was  in  high  spirits,  and  persisted  in  alternating  selec 
tions  from  Moody  and  Sankey's  hymn-book  with  the 
more  worldly  melodies,  singing  all  with  equal  fer 
vor.  The  mixture  pleased  Floyd,  whose  reverential 
sentiments  had  never  been  much  developed,  and 
did  not  seem  to  shock  Mrs.  Floyd,  who  sang 
straight  through  whatever  she  happened  to  know, 
and  hummed  the  rest,  without  seeming  to  care 
much  what  it  was  all  about. 

Out  in  the  office  Bill  Trumbull  smoked  and  lis 
tened,  and  called  once,  greatly  to  Collins's  delight, 
for  a  repetition  of  a  well-known  revival  hymn, 
though  he  did  not  tell  them  that  the  reason  he 
wanted  to  hear  it  again  was  that  it  had  once  been 
a  favorite  with  ••  Mis'  Trumbull."  The  rain  kept 
surging  against  the  office  windows  at  intervals,  and 
now  and  then  the  wind  would  find  its  way  down 


110  THE  J3EOUGHTON  HOUSE. 

the  huge  winding  chimney  and  brighten  the  maple 
logs  with  its  sudden  breath. 

The  "  rainy  spell "  had  set  in,  in  earnest. 
After  a  while  Floyd  come  back  and  stretched 
himself  out  in  a  chair  by  Trumbull,  muttering 
something  about  a  duet  and  not  being  wanted. 
There  was  some  preliminary  turning  of  leaves  and 
trying  of  keys,  and  then  Collinses  superb  voice 
broke  in  with  the  words  of  a  song  he  had  picked 
up  in  a  chamber  concert  at  New  York,  the  pre 
ceding  winter. 

Kiss  me  to-day, 

Wait  not  the  morrow; 

Waiting  is  sorrow, 

Love  me  to-day ! 

Then  Mrs.  Floyd's  faint,  but  clear  soprano  made 

answer,  — 

Love  me  to-morrow, 
Like  me  to-day ; 
Kisses  betray, 
Kiss  me  to-morrow ! 

and  the  bass  began  again,  — 

Kiss  me  to-day, 
only  to  meet  the  soprano's,  — 

Kiss  me  to-morrow, 

and  the  contest  recommenced,  until  the  parts, 
through  inextricable  weavings  of  phrase,  and 
change  and  interchange  and  repetition  of  entreaty 


THE  BEOUGHTON  HOUSE.  Ill 

and  denial,  blended  at  last  in  a  soft  minor  chord, 
and  one  could  not  say  which  had  triumphed. 

"  To-day  "  and  "  to-morrow  "  — "  love  me  "  — 
"like  me*'  —there  is  the  true  stuff  for  a  song 
there,  however  the  phrases  be  written  or  however 
they  may  be  sung. 

Perhaps  John  Sonderby  thought  so,  as  he  sat 
there  moodily,  and  watched  with  his  irresolute  blue 
eyes  the  leaping  of  the  irresolute  blue  flames.  "  To 
day  "  —"to-morrow"  —  "love  me"  —"like  me"? 
His  heart  was  in  a  tumult.  It  had  been  closed 
too  long  upon  the  rest  of  human  kind,  and  neither 
man  nor  woman  had  ever  come  into  his  life  to  stir 
it  very  deeply.  But  a  change  had  come.  A  great 
master  of  tender  speech  prayed  once  for  those  who 
are  initiated  by  sorrow  into  the  brotherhood  of  the 
great  human  family;  yet  sorrow  is  not  the  only 
initiator:  her  sister,  pity,  has  an  equal  share  in 
the  divine  and  beneficent  task.  Pity  had  opened 
his  heart  wide. 

In  vain  did  he  lean  forward,  and  with  unsteady 
hand  push  the  pieces  of  the  breaking  log  together 
to  make  a  hotter  flame,  and  try  to  close  his  ears 
against  those  haunting  catches  of  music.  "  Love 
me?  —  Like  me?"  He  had  to  take  his  turn  with 
the  rest  of  the  world. 

When  Collins  and  Mrs.  Floyd  had  finished,  they 
found  Sonderby  standing  with  his  back  to  the  fire. 

"  Good  night,"  he  said,  as  they  came  toward  the 
fireplace.  "  I'm  going  to  bed." 


112  THE  BEOUGHTON  HOUSE. 

As  he  disappeared  up  the  staircase,  Collins  re 
marked  : 

"  He  seems  a  little  blue  to-night." 

"  The  rain,"  put  in  Mrs.  Floyd,  "  is  enough  to 
make  any  one  blue." 

"  Oh,  it  isn't  the  rain  that  ails  Sonderby,"  re 
joined  Collins.  "  The  truth  is,  he  ought  to  get 
out  of  Broughton.  He  needs  to  be  waked  up.  I 
put  him  on  the  track  of  a  job  in  Boston,  two  or 
three  weeks  ago,  that  would  just  suit  him,  with  an 
electric  company.  Sonderby  is  a  good  fellow,  but 
he  is  a  little  slow;  and  the  longer  he  stays  in 
Broughton,  the  slower  he'll  get.  Isn't  that  your 
experience,  Bill  ?  " 

He  turned  to  Trumbull,  facetiously.  Trumbull 
had  listened  with  interest  to  Collins's  attempt  at 
analysis,  but  did  not  altogether  agree. 

"  Wai,"  he  said,  deliberately,  "  those  winters 
when  I  was  down  to  Boston,  in  the  Legislature,  I 
naturally  took  some  account  of  the  folks  down  there, 
'n  I  didn't  find  any  that  was  smarter  —  that  is,  the 
smart  ones  —  than  smart  folks  right  here  in  Brough 
ton.  That  ain't  it.  Some  folks  are  born  smart  — 
pushers,  drivers,  —  you  know.  There  wTas  Mis' 
Trumbull," -  — and  he  hesitated,  while  the  vacant 
look  came  into  his  eyes. 

"  You  mean,"  said  Mrs.  Floyd,  gently,  thinking 
to  help  him  out,  "  that  it  doesn't  make  any  differ 
ence  where  one  lives." 

Floyd  made  an  impatient  exclamation. 


THE  BEOUGHTON  HOUSE.  113 

She  went  on  without  heeding  him  —  "  that  if 
you're  born  to  be  smart,  you  will  be  smart ;  and 
that  if  you  ain't  —  " 

"  You  won't,"  assisted  Collins. 

"  Exactly,"  concluded  Bill  Trumbull,  looking 
admiringly  at  Tryphena  Floyd,  whom  he  had  al 
ways  liked,  ever  since  she  was  a  child.  "  Wai,  I 
"spose  I  must  be  gittin'  across  the  street.  Nigh 
on  to  ten  o'clock,  ain't  it  ?  Sho !  Pesky  rain, 
ain't  it?  Good  night — good  night,"  and  he  shuf 
fled  off. 

"  We  must  go  too,"  said  Mrs.  Floyd. 

"  Haven't  you  any  umbrella  ?  "  asked  Collins. 
"  Here,  mine  is  in  the  corner.  You  ought  to  have 
some  rubbers  too." 

"  She  won't  need  them,"  said  Floyd. 

Collins  looked  doubtful.  "See  here,  Johnny," 
lie  cried  to  the  stable-boy,  who  had  just  come  into 
the  office.  "  Take  a  lantern  and  show  them  to  the 
cottage.  Find  a  dry  place  to  get  across,  now.'* 

Mrs.  Floyd  looked  up  at  the  manufacturer,  grate 
fully.  "  Thank  you,"  she  said. 

When  the  stable-boy  came  back,  and  set  down 
his  dripping  lantern  by  the  fireplace,  Collins  had 
gone,  and  the  office  was  empty.  The  boy  blew 
out  the  lamps,  and  pulling  Bill  Trumbull's  cush 
ioned  chair  close  up  to  the  dying  fire,  dried  his 
fingers  and  his  heavy  shoes,  and  amused  himself 
by  trying  to  find  horses'  heads  in  the  coals.  He 
fell  asleep  after  a  while,  and  when  he  awoke,  the 


114  THE  BROUGHTON  HOUSE. 

office  was  so  dark  and  dismal,  and  the  rain  tapped 
at  the  windows  in  such  a  ghostly  fashion,  that  he 
locked  the  front  door  of  the  silent  hotel,  and 
climbed  up  to  the  attic  to  bed. 

All  night  long  the  rain  fell,  and  from  time  to 
time  the  thunder  rumbled  over  the  hills,  yet  so 
distant  was  it  that  one  could  hardly  have  told 
whether  it  were  thunder,  or  only  the  roar  of  a 
freight  train  climbing  a  long  grade  down  at  the 
Center,  whence  a  favorable  wind  sometimes  carried 
the  toilsome  sound  even  as  far  as  Broughton. 

Sonderby,  wakened  for  a  moment,  thought  that 
it  was  the  midnight  freight,  and  falling  to  sleep 
again,  dreamed  that  a  train  was  carrying  him  away 
from  Broughton,  and  that  his  heart  was  strangely 
light ;  yet  that  he  did  not  Avish  to  go,  and  tried  to 
leap  from  the  platform,  but  failed,  for  his  feet  were 
so  heavy  that  he  could  not  stir  them.  Then  the 
dream  changed,  and  he  was  bow  oar  in  his  college 
boat  again,  pulling  desperately ;  but  instead  of  his 
college  mates  the  boat  was  manned  by  the  minis 
ter  and  his  wife,  Collins,  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Floyd. 
Mrs.  Floyd  was  pulling  stroke,  her  slim  white  arms 
bare  and  rigid,  and  she  quickened  the  pace  till  the 
felon  on  his  hand  hurt  so  cruelly  that  he  woke. 

It  was  almost  morning,  and  he  did  not  go  to 
sleep  again. 

When  he  came  down  to  breakfast,  Collins  was 
already  there,  his  high  spirits  of  the  preceding 
evening  fortified  by  a  good  night's  rest,  and  unde- 


THE  BROUGHTOS  HOUSE.  115 

terred  by  the  prospect  of  a  rainy  Sunday.  He 
talked  to  Sonderby  a  good  deal  about  the  elec 
tric  company  in  Boston,  and  seemed  pleased  when 
the  school-teacher  said  that  he  had  been  thinking 
the  matter  over  seriously,  and  was  rather  inclined 
to  go. 

"  That's  right,"  approved  Collins.  "  You  ought 
to  get  out  of  this  place,  Sonderby,  and  make  some 
money.  You  are  just  the  man  they  want,  I  know. 
You'd  better  write  in  the  morning  that  you'll  take 
the  offer." 

"  Well/'  hesitated  Sonderby,  "  there  is  no  espe 
cial  hurry.  I  understood  that  their  busy  season 
did  not  begin  for  three  weeks  or  so,  and  that  any 
time  before  that  —  " 

uBut  that's  not  business,"  Collins  interrupted. 
"  If  you're  going  at  all,  there's  no  time  to  spare. 
You  want  to  get  acquainted  with  the  ways  of 
things  down  there  before  the  busy  season  begins. 
Why  don't  you  go  right  off  ?  " 

"I  —  can't,"  replied  Sonderby. 

The  manufacturer  eyed  him,  sidewise,  narrowly. 

"You  can't,  eh?  Why  the  dickens  can't  you? 
Xot  that  I  want  to  get  rid  of  you,  my  boy,"  he 
added,  in  a  more  kindly  fashion.  "  It  would  knock 
our  quartette  higher  than  a  kite.  But  because  I 
am  loafing  up  here  half  the  summer,  waiting  for 
those  devilish  strikers  to  get  read}'  to  go  to  work, 
that's  no  reason  why  a  young  fellow  like  you,  with 
this  big  chance  all  ready  for  you,  should  sit  around 


116  THE  BROUGHTON  HOUSE. 

in  this  little  country  town,  and  get  hayseed  in  your 
hair." 

Sonderby  laughed. 

"It's  no  laughing  matter,"  persisted  Collins,  seri 
ously.  "I  tell  you  the  quicker  you  get  out  of 
Broughton  and  into  the  A.  S.  &  F.  Works,  the 
better  off  you'll  be.  And  now  I've  said  all  I'm 
going  to.  It's  none  of  my  business,  anyway." 

"  I  am  very  grateful  to  you,  Collins,"  said  Son 
derby,  earnestly. 

"  That's  all  right.  Now  if  you'll  only  pack  up, 
I'll  believe  you.  You  hang  along  as  if  there  were 
some  woman  in  the  case  :  as  if  —  " 

"  Hush  up  !  " 

Collins  stopped,  lifting  his  black  eyebrows  a 
trifle.  He  had  only  been  joking  in  that  last  sen 
tence,  and  Sonderby  had  spoken  angrily.  Ah! 
And  Collins  closed  his  eyes  as  he  took  a  long,  med 
itative  draught  from  his  coffee-cup. 

Tryphena  Floyd  had  just  come  in,  and  was  tak 
ing  her  seat  opposite  Sonderby.  Her  husband  fol 
lowed  her,  a  moment  later,  and  the  conversation 
turned,  naturally  enough,  to  the  subject  of  the 
weather. 

A  Sunday  morning  in  a  New  England  country 
town !  Most  of  the  people  who  had  come  up  from 
the  Center  in  the  Broughton  stage  the  day  before 
had  a  definite  vision  of  the  morrow  that  awaited 
them.  It  should  be  a  bright  morning,  just  warm 


THE  BROUGHTON  HOUSE.  117 

enough  to  make  one  realize  how  hot  it  would  have 
been  in  the  city,  and  there  should  be  enough  breeze 
to  bend  the  meadow  grasses,  and  rustle  in  the  elm- 
tops,  and  waft  the  white  clouds  slowly  on  their 
way.  It  should  be  a  quiet  morning,  with  hardly 
any  sound  except  from  the  bobolinks,  until  the 
church-bells  began  to  ring,  and  the  farm  wagons  to 
rattle  by  on  their  way  to  church ;  and  in  the  white 
meeting-house  itself  the  windows  should  be  wide 
open,  and  if  one  did  not  like  the  minister,  he  could 
help  himself  to  a  big  old-fashioned  palm-leaf  fan, 
and  look  outdoors,  across  the  stone  walls  and 
country  roads  and  raspberry  bushes  to  the  mead 
ows,  and  dream  his  childish  dreams  over  again,  and 
gently  fan  himself  to  sleep. 

But  alas!  this  particular  Sunday  morning  in 
Broughton  was  destined  to  be  a  disappointment  to 
the  visionaries. 

The  elm-tops  swayed  in  the  wind,  indeed,  but 
they  shook  showers  of  drops  from  their  dripping 
leaves  ;  the  road  along  Main  Street  was  three  inches 
thick  with  mud.  the  grass  in  the  meadows  was 
lodged  with  the  violence  of  the  storm,  and  a  cold 
rain  fell  incessantly.  The  wind  had  blown  the 
rain  in  upon  the  piazza  of  the  hotel,  and  the  chairs 
were  so  wet  that  no  one  could  sit  out  there.  Evans 
ordered  a  fire  built  in  the  sheet-iron  stove  in  the 
parlor,  and  another  in  the  fireplace  in  the  office  ; 
and  the  guests  tried,  dispiritedly,  to  make  them 
selves  as  comfortable  as  they  could. 


118  THE  BEOUGIITON  HOUSE. 

The  quartette  of  "  regulars  "  had  some  difficulty 
in  arranging  their  programme  for  the  morning. 
Floyd,  who  was  in  110  humor  for  work,  even  had 
the  weather  permitted,  proposed  whist ;  but  Mrs. 
Floyd  would  not  play,  and  Sonderby  did  not  seem 
enthusiastic.  Collins  said  he  had  some  letters  to 
write ;  but  when  Floyd  challenged  him  to  a  game 
of  euchre,  he  seemed  willing  to  defer  them. 

"  Evans,"  he  remarked,  calling  the  proprietor 
into  a  corner  of  the  office,  "  Mr.  Floyd  and  I  are 
going  to  have  a  little  game  of  euchre  up  in  my 
room.  And  —  Evans  —  the  morning  is  likely  to  be 
cold." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  replied  Evans,  intelligently.  "  With 
lemons?  " 

"  If  you  please." 

Though  Evans  affirmed  in  the  March  town-meet 
ing,  and  everywhere  else,  that  he  kept  a  "  strictly 
temperance  house,"  it  was  evident  that  he  was  not 
without  experience  in  the  art  of  running  a  hotel. 
The  Broughton  farmers  who  voted  "  no  license  " 
religiously  every  spring,  after  having  consumed 
hard  cider  all  the  winter,  would  have  been  shocked 
enough  if  they  had  known  of  the  Welshman's  sub- 
cellar. 

When  Collins  and  Floyd  went  upstairs,  the 
school-teacher  and  Mrs.  Floyd  were  left  in  the 
parlor,  standing  with  three  or  four  other  people 
around  the  sheet-iron  stove.  Mrs.  Floyd  seemed 
ill  at  ease  there,  and  after  replying  once  or  twice 


THE  BROUGHTOX  HOUSE. 

to  Sonderby 's  attempts  at  starting  a  conversation, 
she  whispered  to  him,  *;  Come,  let's  go  over  to  the 
cottage." 

He  followed  her  into  the  hall. 

"  Why  not  ? "  she  asked,  seeing  his  inquiring 
look.  "We  can  build  a  fire  in  the  sitting-room.  I 
don't  know  why  I  didn't  think  of  it  before." 

Sonderby  took  his  hat  and  umbrella  without  a 
word. 

••  Wait  till  I  get  on  my  rubbers,"  she  said, 
eagerly. 

Then  holding  his  umbrella  over  her,  he  piloted 
her  across  the  stable  road,  now  a  rivulet,  and 
under  the  drenched  lilac  bushes,  to  the  front  door 
of  the  cottage. 

It  happened  that  Collins,  who  had  just  stepped 
to  the  window  of  his  room  to  open  the  shutters, 
caught  sight  of  the  pair  under  the  umbrella.  He 
looked  at  them  reflectively  until  they  disappeared, 
but  for  some  reason  or  other  he  made  no  comments 
to  Floyd. 

Tryphena,  pulling  off  her  waterproof  and  rub 
bers  in  the  tiny  hall,  opened  the  door  of  the 
sitting-room. 

"  Will  you  walk  into  my  parlor  ?  "  she  cried. 

Sonderby  watched  her  silently  as  she  ran  across 
the  room  and  closed  the  bedroom  door.  Then 
she  took  off  the  top  of  the  square,  soapstone  stove, 
and  surveyed  the  inside. 

"  What  do  you  think  ?"  she  demanded.     "  Don't 


120  THE  BEOUGHTON   HOUSE. 

you  believe  it  will  heat  up  ?  It's  most  worn  out, 
though." 

Sonderby  took  the  heavy  top  from  her  hand, 
and  looked  down  into  the  huge,  sooty  interior. 
His  only  answer  was  a  smile,  and  that  a  rather 
vacant  one ;  for  the  sight  of  her  hand,  tense  in  its 
hold  upon  the  soapstone  lid,  had  made  him  think 
of  his  dream  of  the  night  before.  Was  she  the 
stroke  oar,  and  was  she  setting  a  pace  too  quick 
for  him,  in  spite  of  all  he  could  do  ? 

He  gathered  himself  together.  "  Oh,  I  guess 
we  can  manage  it,"  he  said.  "  Where  did  your 
aunt  keep  her  kindling-wood?" 

She  led  the  way  to  the  woodshed,  in  the  rear  of 
the  cottage,  and  gave  him  a  basket  which  he  filled 
with  chips  and  bits  of  old  apple-tree  wood,  she 
helping  all  the  time,  in  the  highest  spirits. 

u  Give  me  the  basket,"  directed  Mrs.  Floyd, 
"  and  bring  an  armful  of  wood.  You  must  make 
yourself  useful,  if  you  expect  me  to  take  care  of 
you." 

He  picked  up  three  or  four  sticks. 

"Now  bring  one  of  those  big  chunks,"  she 
ordered.  "Aunt  Tryphena  used  to  have  them 
left  big  on  purpose.  Oh,  I  don't  mean  at  the  same 
time  with  the  others  !  " 

He  had  stooped  and  lifted  a  huge  knot  of  maple, 
in  addition  to  what  he  held  before. 

"  How  strong  you  are ! "  she  said,  admiringly, 
then  blushed  a  little  and  started  for  the  sitting- 


THE  BROUGHTOX   HOUSE.  121 

room,  Sonderby  following.  He  put  down  his 
armful  in  front  of  the  stove,  breathing  hard,  but 
not  altogether  because  of  the  weight  he  had 
carried. 

"We  must  have  some  paper  now,"  Tryphena 
exclaimed,  and  going  to  the  paper-rack  that  hung 
against  the  wall  by  the  window,  she  pulled  out  two 
or  three  dustv  copies  of  the  The  New  York  Observer. 

"  Don't  you  think  these  will  burn  ?  "  she  asked. 

"You  mean  that  they  are  dry  enough?" 

"  Well,  Mr.  Quickness  !    Yes." 

He  was  beginning  to  catch  her  infectious  spirits. 
Tearing  the  papers  and  crumpling  them  into  loose 
balls,  he  filled  the  bottom  of  the  stove,  and  covered 
them,  as  artistically  as  he  could,  with  the  least 
mouldy  chips,  and  a  few  splinters  of  wood.  Then 
Tryphena  struck  a  match,  turned  the  rusty  damper 
in  the  pipe,  and  touched  off  the  papers.  They 
smoked  prodigiously,  but  no  flame  appeared,  and 
she  dropped  on  her  knees  and  blew  at  the  lower 
draught,  laughing  meanwhile. 

"Help,"'  she  bubbled.     "You  don't  help  at  all." 

Sonderby  knelt  too,  and  taking  a  big  breath, 
blew  steadily  upon  the  smoking  paper,  while  Try 
phena,  her  cheeks  full  of  color  with  the  unusual 
effort  she  had  made,  watched  him  eagerly.  A  thin 
flame  spurted,  then  another. 

"  All  right,"  said  Sonderby,  getting  up  and 
brushing  involuntarily  the  knees  of  his  trousers. 

"  You're  not  very  complimentary  to  my  floor," 


122  THE  BROUGHTON  HOUSE. 

she  commented;  "but  never  mind.  Now  let's  sit 
down  and  be  comfortable." 

Soiiderby  had  never  seen  her  so  gay.  She 
brought  her  own  low  rocker  for  herself,  and  pushed 
toward  him  a  high-backed,  deep-cushioned  chair, 
that  had  been  the  peculiar  property  of  Aunt 
Tryphena.  As  they  seated  themselves  on  opposite 
sides  of  the  stove,  it  came  over  Sonderby  that  he 
had  been  a  fool ;  that  she  was  nothing  but  a  girl  — 
a  girl  of  twenty-two,  like  three  or  four  who  had 
been  under  him  at  the  academy  —  that  she  was 
girlishly  happy  at  heart,  after  all,  and  that  his  fears 
for  her,  and  his  nervous  dream  about  himself,  Avere 
the  purest  nonsense.  He  breathed  freer.  How 
light  her  talk  was,  too,  as  she  rattled  on,  about 
Collins  and  Bill  Trumbull  and  the  lady  with  eye 
glasses,  and  the  last  game  of  whist,  while  the  fire 
crackled  merrily  in  the  old  stove,  and  the  wet  lilac 
bushes  dripped  against  the  windows ! 

There  was  such  an  odd  flavor  of  sarcasm  in  all 
she  said,  such  a  quaint  way  of  putting  things. 
Sonderby  had  hardly  more  to  do  than  to  express 
his  assent  or  dissent.  Moment  by  moment  a 
weight  was  rising  from  his  heart.  He  had  been 
a  sort  of  well-intentioned  idiot,  he  kept  thinking 
to  himself ;  he  ought  to  have  known  that  he  knew 
nothing  about  women. 

He,  John  Sonderby,  boating-man,  school-teacher, 
posing  as  the  discoverer  of  a  woman's  secret,  the 
sentimental  meddler,  the  suspecter  of  his  own 


THE  BROUGHTOS  HOUSE.  123 

motives,  the  dreamer  of  unhealthy  dreams?  It- 
was  really  too  absurd. 

He  put  the  knot  of  maple  into  the  stove,  and 
gave  himself  up  to  the  happiness  of  frank,  cosey 
companionship  with  a  woman  he  liked.  An  hour 
passed,  —  the  happiest  hour  he  had  ever  known. 

They  fell  to  comparing  notes  about  their  child 
hood,  and  it  appeared  that  their  circumstances  had 
not  been  unlike.  Sonderby's  parents  were  no  lon 
ger  living,  and  for  years  he  had  had  to  shift  for 
himself.  He  told  Mi's.  Floyd  about  his  colleo-e 

<-  O 

life,  about  the  way  he  happened  to  come  to  Brough- 
ton  to  take  the  school,  and  how  he  had  stayed  along 
for  three  years.  She  listened  amusedly  to  some  of 
his  teaching  experiences,  understanding  thoroughly, 
on  the  one  hand,  the  strong  hold  he  had  upon  his 
pupils,  which  had  made  the  academy  more  pros 
perous  under  his  management  than  it  had  been 
for  many  a  year,  and  appreciating,  011  the  other 
hand,  the  prevailing  Broughton  dubiousness  as  to 
the  status  of  an  academy  teacher  who  seldom  went 
to  church,  who  omitted  the  extempore  prayer  from 
the  devotional  exercises  with  which  the  school  ses 
sion  opened,  and  who  talked  to  his  scholars  so 
earnestly  about  common  morality  as  to  give  rise  to 
the  suspicion  that  he  was  a  Unitarian. 

She  made  him  laugh,  in  turn,  by  telling  him 
some  of  her  own  adventures  in  the  academy  as  a 
schoolgirl,  and  little  by  little  he  found  that  he  was 
constructing  for  himself  the  whole  of  her  life  up 


124  THE  BEOUGHTON  HOUSE. 

till  the  time  of  her  marriage.  He  felt  as  if  he 
knew  her  better  than  ever  before  ;  and  though  she 
did  not  once  mention  her  marriage  nor  her  hus 
band,  honest  John  Sonderby  had  a  conviction  that 
that  was  sacred  ground  upon  which  she  would  not 
enter  with  him,  however  strong  their  feeling  of 
comradeship  might  be.  He  wanted  to  ask  her 
advice  about  himself,  about  the  position  with  the 
A.  S.  &  F.  Company.  So  strong  was  his  revulsion 
of  feeling  against  the  mood  he  had  been  in  the  night 
before,  that  he  was  conscious  of  a  longing  to  con 
sult  her  about  leaving  Broughton,  feeling  that  that 
very  act  would  be  a  kind  of  expiation  of  the  fact 
that  on  the  preceding  evening  leaving  Broughton 
meant  chiefly  to  him  an  abandonment  of  her. 

"  I  should  like,"  he  said,  "  to  ask  you  about  some 
thing  that  concerns  me  pretty  closely." 

"  Yes  ?  "  she  answered. 

If  he  had  not  been  intent  on  what  he  was  saying, 
he  might  have  noticed  that  a  sort  of  lassitude  had 
gradually  taken  possession  of  her.  The  sparkle 
had  begun  to  go  out  of  her  eyes,  and  the  brilliant, 
transient  mood  seemed  to  have  left  her  weary. 

"  I  have  had  a  good  position  offered  me  in  Bos 
ton,"  he  went  on,  "  with  the  A.  S.  &  F.  Company." 

"  You  are  going  away,"  she  cried,  drearily.  "  I 
heard  you  say  so  to  Mrs.  Ellerton ;  Mr.  Collins 
told  us  so  last  night.  You  are  going  away." 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  stammered.  "  The  salary  — 
It  is  a  very  good  position." 


THE  BROUGHTOy  HOUSE.  125 

*;  Oh,  yes,"  she  said.  "  The  money.  Of  course. 
We  must  have  something  to  live  for  —  money  —  or 
art," 

The  sudden  bitterness  of  Tryphena's  voice  fright 
ened  him.  It  swept  away  the  security  in  which  he 
had  been  sheltering  himself  all  the  morning,  and 
the  old  fear  and  uncertainty  rushed  back  upon  him. 

'•  I  may  not  go,"  he  stammered  again.  '•  I  don't 
know." 

"'  You  are  going,"  she  murmured,  and  he  thought 
he  saw  a  terror  steal  into  her  eyes. 

"  No,"  he  cried,  blundering  straight  to  the  heart 
of  the  matter,  " I  wont  go  if  I  can  stay  and  help 
you." 

There  was  a  long  instant  of  silence.  Then  she 
rose  and  stretched  out  her  slim  white  hand ;  and 
Sonderby  thought,  even  in  that  intense  moment, 
of  his  dream. 

"  John  Sonderby,"  she  said,  quite  simply  and 
quietly,  taking  his  right  hand,  "you  are  a  good 
man.  But  you  can't  help  me.  Xo  one  can  help 
me." 

Then  she  relinquished  her  grasp,  and  sinking 
into  her  chair,  covered  her  cheeks  with  her  hands, 
but  not  enough  to  hide  the  swift-coming  blushes. 
Sonderby  stood  looking  at  her,  crushing  down  a 
fierce  desire  to  take  her  in  his  arms. 

"  I'm  tired  now :  I  guess  I'm  too  tired." 

He  understood  her,  and  turning  without  a  word, 
opened  the  door,  and  strode  out  into  the  rain. 


126  THE  BEOUGIITON  HOUSE. 

At  the  door  of  the  Broughton  House  Collins 
met  him.  "  Floyd  beat  me  at  euchre,"  he  remarked, 
peculiarly,  "and  he  felt  so  well  over  it,  that  he 
got  Johnny  to  drive  him  down  to  the  Center. 
Shouldn't  wonder  if  he  didn't  get  back  till  to 
morrow." 

"Is  that  so?"  replied  Sonderby,  dryly,  hardly 
knowing  what  he  said,  or  what  Collins  really 
meant,  though  the  slight  odor  of  whiskey  punch 
that  clung  to  the  manufacturer  might  have  en 
lightened  him.  As  the  school-teacher  passed  the 
door  of  the  parlor,  he  saw  the  lady  with  eye-glasses 
seated  at  the  melodeon,  turning  over  Collins's 
music,  which  still  remained  on  the  rack  from  the 
previous  evening.  While  he  was  mechanically 
mounting  the  stairs  to  his  room,  she  began  upon 
the  soprano  of  the  duet : 

Love  me  to-morrow, 
Like  me  to-day ; 
Kisses  betray, 
Kiss  me  to-morrow ! 

and  poor  Sonderby,  gripping  the  balustrade  with 
one  hand,  stopped  to  listen  and  thought  of  the 
night  before,  and  saw  again  the  crouching  figure 
he  had  left  in  the  cottage,  and  felt  a  passionate 
wrath  rising  in  his  heart  against  Floyd,  against 
Collins,  and  against  the  whole  vulgar,  brutal  world. 


VI. 


MRS.  FLOYD  did  not  appear  at  dinner.  Collins 
was  in  a  jovial  frame  of  mind,  and,  failing  to  get 
much  talk  out  of  Sonderby,  tried  with  some  success 
to  cultivate  the  acquaintance  of  the  table-waitress, 
a  recent  arrival  from  the  Center.  The  school 
teacher  ate  silently,  except  when  his  left-hand 
neighbor,  the  gentleman  upon  whom  Bill  Trum- 
bull  had  exercised  his  story-telling  gift,  questioned 
him  about  the  drives  and  the  scenery  near  Brough- 
ton.  Sonderby  replied  as  courteously  as  he  could, 
and,  though  his  mind  was  not  really  on  what  he 
was  saying,  he  surprised  himself  by  an  unusual 
fluency  and  readiness. 

When  the  dessert  was  served,  Collins  tried  him 
again. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  this  afternoon.  Son- 
derby?" 

"  I  have  something  to  do  at  the  academy." 

"What,  Sunday?" 

"  Yes,  some  reading."  As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  had 
not  thought  of  the  afternoon  until  Collins  spoke. 

"  I  didn't  know  but  you'd  be  over  at  the  cottage 
again,"  said  Collins,  encouragingly,  balancing  a 
piece  of  berry  pie  upon  his  fork. 

127 


128  THE  J3ROUGHTON  HOUSE. 

Sonderby  made  no  answer,  and  Collins  dropped 
the  subject. 

"  By  the  way,"  the  manufacturer  inquired,  as 
Sonderby  was  folding  his  napkin,  "  have  you  writ 
ten  that  letter  yet?" 

"  Not  yet,"  was  the  stiff  reply.  Sonderby  felt 
the  blood  rising  to  his  face.  Collins  smiled  im- 
perturbably;  and  Sonderby,  the  impotent  wrath 
coining  into  his  throat  again,  left  the  table. 

"  Who  is  he  ?  "  said  the  waitress,  familiarly,  as 
she  stood  by  Collins's  chair. 

"He's  the  school-teacher,  Kittle,"  replied  Col 
lins,  holding  out  his  glass  for  some  ice-water,  "  and 
a  first-rate  fellow.  He's  a  little  off  color  to-day, 
though." 

While  Collins  was  smoking  his  after-dinner  cigar 
in  front  of  the  fireplace,  he  noticed  that  Sonderby 
walked  through  the  hall,  hat  and  umbrella  in  hand, 
without  glancing  into  the  office.  The  manufac 
turer  strolled  over  to  the  window,  curious  to  see 
whether  he  would  keep  his  word  about  going  to 
the  academy. 

Sure  enough,  Sonderby  turned  to  the  right,  and 
trudged  off  toward  the  academy,  his  feet  sinking 
almost  to  the  ankle  at  every  step,  in  the  water- 
soaked  gravel  of  Evans's  newly  made  road.  Collins 
watched  him  with  a  smile,  and,  sauntering  again  to 
the  fireplace,  stood  with  his  back  to  it,  contempla 
tively,  while  he  finished  his  cigar.  If  the  manu 
facturer  had  any  new  ideas  on  that  rainy  Sunday, 


THE  BROUGHTON   HOUSE.  129 

he  kept  them  to  himself.  After  a  few  minutes  he 
went  up  to  his  room  to  write  his  letters. 

John'  Sonderby,  meanwhile,  unlocked  the  front 
door  of  the  Doric-pillared  academy,  and  entered 
the  dusty  room  where  the  working  hours  of  three 
years  of  his  life  had  been  spent. 

He  leaned  his  dripping  umbrella  against  the 
desk  whence  he  had  ruled  his  little  world,  and  the 
desk  and  the  room  seemed  to  him  smaller  than 
ever  before.  He  went  into  the  "  laboratory,"  as 
he  was  fond  of  calling  the  tiny  recitation-room 
that  contained  the  scientific  apparatus  of  the 
academy,  and  flung  himself  into  a  chair  before 
the  acid-stained  table.  Upon  the  rear  of  the  table 
were  ranged  a  row  of  books  upon  physics,  the  one 
subject  in  which  he  had  hitherto  felt  a  strong  and 
permanent  interest.  He  had  economized  strictly, 
in  order  to  buy  these  books,  and  to  purchase  much 
of  the  electrical  apparatus  that  was  scattered  about 
the  room.  The  hard-handed  school  committee  of 
Broughton  had  indeed  been  willing  that  the  pupils 
of  the  academy  should  learn  something  about  the 
telephone,  after  the  wire  had  been  put  up  between 
the  village  and  the  Center ;  but  their  appropriation 
of  money  for  purposes  of  experiment  was  so  ridic 
ulously  small  that  the  teacher  had  to  pay  most  of 
it  out  of  his  own  pocket.  It  was  in  making  some 
experiments  with  a  telephone-switch,  one  day,  that 
Sonderby  hit  upon  an  expedient  for  simplifying 
the  number  of  wires  then  in  use. 


130  THE  BEOUGHTON  HOUSE. 

He  communicated  this  idea,  which,  it  is  to  be 
said,  he  was  not  able  thoroughly  to  work  out,  to 
an  expert  connected  with  the  A.  S.  &  F.  Works, 
and  it  was  to  the  correspondence  which  ensued 
that  Sonderby  was  really  indebted  for  the  offer  of 
a  place  with  the  company,  though  Collins,  who 
had  had  business  relations  with  them,  had  indeed 
spoken  a  good  word  for  the  school-teacher. 

Sonderby  sat  in  his  chair,  gazing  across  the 
table  stupidly  at  the  row  of  text-books.  If  he  cared 
more  about  physics  than  about  anything  else  in 
the  world,  it  was  singular  that  he  did  not  open  one 
of  those  books  and  satisfy  himself.  He  had  not 
read  much  for  three  weeks  past.  He  had  spent 
hours  upon  hours  every  day  with  his  friends  at  the 
Broughton  House.  He  had  grown  to  be  quite 
well  acquainted  with  them,  as  he  thought.  Yet  as 
he  sat  there  it  came  over  him  that  he  really  knew 
nothing  about  Floyd,  nor  about  Floyd's  wife. 
Why  was  it  that  he  could  not  help  her,  that  no  one 
could  help  her  ?  He  had  suspected  for  some  time 
that  she  was  unhappy,  that  her  husband  did  not 
care  for  her.  For  two  hours  he  had  been  sure  of 
it.  Yet  what  had  that  to  do  with  him,  the  almost- 
discoverer  of  a  patent  telephone-switch  ? 

Pity,  the  initiator,  had  done  her  task  for  him  in 
those  weeks  of  summer,  and  he  was  no  longer  what 
he  once  had  been.  He  had  a  confused  conscious 
ness  of  a  resolve  to  shield  that  woman,  if  he  could, 
when  the  time  came  to  serve  her,  though  mean- 


THE  BROUGHTOX    HOUSE.  131 

while  the  sight  of  her  white  hands  stirred  him  as  if 
in  a  dream,  and  his  breath  grew  quick  and  his 
head  whirled.  .  .  . 

John  Sonderby,  school-teacher,  roused  himself 
at  length,  and  seizing  Clerk  Maxwell's  Electricity 
and  Magnetism,  opened  it  at  the  chapter  on  wt  Con 
duction  in  Three  Dimensions,"  and  resting  his  el 
bows  on  the  table,  and  his  head  upon  his  hands,  he 
read  fiercely  hour  after  hour,  till  the  dusk  closed 
in  upon  the  sombre  laboratory,  and  he  could  see 
no  longer.  Then  he  locked  up  the  academy  and 
went  home,  chilled  by  the  dampness  and  his  long- 
sitting  in  one  position,  but  feeling  steadier  and 
walking  more  erectly  than  when  he  came. 

The  dining-room  of  the  hotel  was  already  emp 
tied.  The  waitress,  Kittie,  looked  at  him  curi 
ously,  while  she  brought  him  some  cold  roast  beef, 
with  tea  and  huckleberries.  Collinses  remark  about 
Sonderby's  being  off  color  had  interested  her,  but 
she  failed  to  make  much  out  of  him.  He  noticed, 
with  some  relief,  that  Mrs.  Floyd  had  been  at  sup 
per.  He  took  pains  to  walk  through  the  parlor 
and  reading-room,  as  he  went  out,  and  satisfied 
himself  she  was  not  there.  Looking  in  at  the 

O 

office  door,  he  saw  several  of  the  guests  grouped 
about  the  fireplace,  but  Collins  and  Bill  Trumbull, 
who  were  in  the  centre,  were  the  only  ones  he 
knew.  Clearly,  Mrs.  Floyd  had  returned  to  the 
cottage. 


132  THE  BEOUGIITON  HOUHE. 

He  stood  for  a  while  in  the  front  door  of  the 
hotel,  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  looking  out  into 
the  gloomy  rain,  and  wondering  how  he  could 
spend  the  evening.  He  was  in  no  mood  for  the 
society  of  the  group  in  the  office ;  he  had  been 
alone  all  the  afternoon,  and  fond  of  solitude  as  he 
had  commonly  been,  an  evening  spent  in  his  own 
room  seemed  rather  lonely  to  him.  He  saw  that 
there  was  a  light  in  the  sitting-room  of  the  cot 
tage  ;  but  something  told  him  that  Mrs.  Floyd 
would  not  wish  to  see  him,  had  he  even  for  his 
own  sake  dared  to  go. 

The  bell  of  the  Congregational  church  began  to 
toll,  sounding  heavily  down  through  the  swaying 
elms.  Sonderby  took  out  his  old  silver  watch :  it 
was  half-past  seven.  Why  not  go  to  church,  for 
once  ?  This  had  been  a  strange  Sunday ;  indeed, 
not  a  Sunday  at  all.  He  liked  Ellerton  since  he 
had  come  to  know  something  of  him  ;  the  minis 
ter  was  a  straightforward  fellow,  \vlio  said  what  he 
thought,  and  would  always  say  it  in  thirty  minutes. 
On  the  whole,  why  not  go  to  hear  him  preach  ? 
The  service  would  last  an  hour  or  so,  and  by  that 
time,  Sonderby  reflected,  he  might  possibly  be  tired 
enough  to  go  to  bed,  and  to  sleep  without  dream 
ing. 

He  slipped  quietly  out  of  the  door,  and  taking 
up  again  his  soaked  umbrella,  started  for  the  meet 
ing-house.  He  could  not  help  glancing  at  the 
cottage  as  he  passed,  but  the  curtains  were  drawn, 


THE  BROUGHTON   HOUSE.  133 

There  were  in  the  muddy  street  few  church-goers, 
and  most  of  these  were  young.  He  overtook  one 
of  his  pupils,  a  stooping,  overgrown  girl  of  sixteen, 
and  walked  along  with  her,  evidently  much  to  her 
surprise  and  pleasure.  As  they  mounted  the  knoll 
on  which  the  meeting-house  stood,  he  saw  that  the 
front  doors  were  unopened  and  the  audience-room 
unlighted. 

"Why,"  he  said,  "isn't  Mr.  Ellerton  going  to 
preach?" 

"Oh,  no,"  she  replied.  "Don't  you  remember? 
It  is  the  second  Sunday  of  the  month,  and  the 
Young  People's  Society  meeting  takes  the  place 
of  the  preaching."  She  spoke  with  some  pride. 
Sonderby  would  have  retreated,  but  that  he  was 
ashamed  to  do  so.  Besides,  they  were  nearly 
at  the  lecture-room  entrance,  and  it  was  too  late. 
He  entered  with  his  pupil,  but  left  her  at  the 
door  and  sat  down  in  one  of  the  rear  seats. 
When  he  looked  up,  as  the  bell  finished  toll- 
ing,  the  room  was  half  full  of  people,  and  in  the 
leaders  chair,  placed  in  front  of  the  pulpit,  sat 
Ruth  Ellerton.  She  gave  out  the  opening  hymn, 
and  the  stooping  girl  in  whose  company  Sonderby 
had  come  started  the  tune  vociferously.  While  it 
was  singing,  Sonderby  picked  up  one  of  the  cards 
that  were  strewn  plentifully  about  the  seats,  and 
ran  his  eye  over  the  list  of  topics  and  leaders  for 
the  devotional  meetings  of  the  Young  People's 
Society  of  Christian  Endeavor.  He  had  heard  a 


134  THE  RROUGIITON  HOUSE. 

good  deal  during  the  preceding  winter,  in  a  casual 
way,  about  the  Y.  P.  S.  C.  E.,  which  had  been 
started  soon  after  Ellerton's  settlement  in  Brough- 
ton,  but  the  school-teacher  had  never  taken  any 
particular  interest  in  the  organization.  He  recog 
nized  now,  in  the  neatly  printed  schedule,  the 
names  of  many  of  his  pupils,  and  wondered  that 
they  had  courage  enough  to  take  such  a  prominent 
part  in  the  meetings. 

Opposite  the  date  of  that  Sunday,  July  15,  was 
the  name  of  the  leader,  Mrs.  Arthur  Ellerton,  with 
the  topic,  "  Be  not  weary  in  well-doing,"  and  a  ref 
erence  to  a  Scripture  passage.  His  scrutiny  was 
interrupted  by  a  little  fellow,  who  got  up  noisily 
from  his  seat  to  offer  the  school-teacher  a  hymn- 
book,  which  Sonderby,  seeing  that  several  persons 
were  looking  at  him,  accepted  with  the  best  grace 
he  could  muster,  and  sang  the  last  two  stanzas  with 
tolerable  correctness.  Then  Mrs.  Ellerton,  in  a 
low  voice  and  with  an  evident  embarrassment,  said, 
"  Let  us  pray,"  and,  closing  her  eyes,  rested  her 
head  upon  her  hand  and  began  the  opening  prayer. 
Sonderby  had  never  heard  a  woman  pray,  and  was 
profoundly  touched  by  it.  The  grave,  sweet  voice, 
the  absolute  simplicity,  the  reverence,  the  desire, 
—  these  things  moved  him  as  no  petition  had  ever 
done  before.  He  did  not  dare  look  at  her  till  she 
had  raised  her  face,  and  then  he  noticed  the  red 
spot  on  her  forehead  where  her  hand  had  pressed, 
and  the  moisture  in  her  gray  eyes.  After  a  mo- 


THE  BROUGHTOX  HOUSE.  135 

ment's  pause,  she  read  the  chapter  in  the  Epistle, 
repeating,  for  emphasis,  the  verse  selected  for  the 
special  topic  of  the  evening.  Her  voice  grew 
clearer  as  she  went  on,  and  by  the  time  the  second 
hymn  was  sung,  and  she  began  to  talk,  it  seemed 
to  Sonderby  that  she  was  as  self-possessed  as  she 
had  been  at  her  own  tea-table. 

"  Be  not  weary  in  well-doing,  for  in  due  season 
ye  shall  reap  if  ye  faint  not."  There  is  the  accent 
of  conviction  in  those  words  which  carries  its  own 
weight  without  the  necessity  of  comment.  Ruth 
Ellerton  tried  to  do  no  more  than  to  point  out  how 
the  personal  character  of  the  writer  gave  signifi 
cance  to  his  exhortations  and  his  testimony,  and 
then  to  show  the  application  of  the  words  to  the 
members  of  the  Broughton  Young  People's  Society 
of  Christian  Endeavor. 

For  everybody  in  Broughton  worked,  she  said 
with  a  smile  (apparently  forgetting  Bill  Trumbull), 
and  the  main  thing  was  to  learn  to  do  one's  work 
without  weariness ;  that  is,  without  weariness  of 
spirit,  for  to  be  tired  in  body  did  no  one  any  harm. 
Purposeless  work  was  what  made  us  weary.  One 
must  work  with  an  inspiring  motive,  feeling  that 
God  has  given  him  that  special  work  to  do,  because 
he  was  fit  to  do  it ;  and  the  work  that  God  gives 
people  is  very  likely  to  be  work  for  others. 

That  was  really  all  she  said,  though  she  ex 
plained  and  illustrated  it  in  a  good  many  ways, 
with  rare  tact  and  adaptation  to  the  particular  per- 


136  THE  BEOUGHTON  HOUSE. 

sons  before  her.  She  forgot  all  about  Soiiderby, 
after  the  first  sentence  or  two,  and  gave  herself  up 
to  making  the  half-grown  boys  and  girls,  and  the 
few  older  persons  present,  feel  the  force  of  what 
she  was  saying.  Only  once  or  twice  did  she  seem 
to  be  talking  more  to  herself  than  to  her  audience, 
and  then  she  quoted  Longfellow's  Dante,  and 
used  some  words  that  Broughton  folks  were  not 
in  the  habit  of  hearing.  Her  tone  grew  more  in 
tense  and  rapid  as  she  went  on,  and  once  or  twice, 
without  knowing  it,  she  gesticulated  slightly  with 
the  hymn-book  that  she  held  in  her  hand.  The 
room  was  very  still  as  she  finished.  The  Young 
People's  Society  of  Christian  Endeavor  was  un 
boundedly  loyal,  almost  reverential,  toward  its 
founder. 

"  And  now  the  meeting  is  open,"  she  concluded, 
taking  out  her  watch  and  laying  it  on  the  table 
with  a  business-like  air  that  seemed  a  trifle  incon 
gruous.  "  We  mustn't  have  any  time  wasted.  Let 
us  first,  however,  sing  another  hymn." 

Soiiderby  opened  his  book  and  sang  the  hymn 
through  with  the  rest.  Then  the  stoop-shouldered 
girl  repeated  a  verse  which  had  indeed  110  particu 
lar  reference  to  the  subject  of  the  meeting,  but 
which  was  sufficient  to  discharge  the  weekly  obli 
gation  she  had  assumed  in  becoming  an  active  mem 
ber  of  the  Y.  P.  S.  C.  E. 

A  young  farmer  from  out  on  the  North  Brough 
ton  road  rose  and  made  some  "  remarks  "  so  thor- 


THE  BROUGHTON   HOUSE.  13T 

oughly  in  the  New  England  vernacular  that  many 
of  the  village  young  people  laughed,  hut  so  com 
pletely  in  sympathy  with  the  leader's  ideas  that 
she  smiled  at  him,  assisting!}*,  in  a  manner  that 

would  have  turned  the  head  of  a  more  imaginative 

& 

youth.  Then  came  another  hymn,  some  more  texts 
of  Scripture,  and  two  or  three  hits  of  religious 
poetry  quoted  by  the  village  girls. 

A  small  boy,  the  son  of  Parkinson,  the  store 
keeper,  offered  prayer.  So  the  meeting  ran  its 
course,  until  every  active  member  of  the  society 
had  taken  some  kind  of  part,  and  Mrs.  Ellerton 
rose  punctually  upon  the  minute,  and  gave  out  the 
closing  hymn. 

John  Sonderby,  to  tell  the  truth,  did  not  follow 
the  progress  of  the  meeting  very  closely,  though 
in  some  of  the  things  that  were  said  he  felt  a  curi 
ous  interest.  He  sat  a  good  deal  of  the  time  look 
ing  at  the  leader,  with  all  the  rest  of  the  audience 
blurred  out  of  sight  for  him.  He  was  comparing 
Ruth  Ellerton,  as  she  sat  there  in  her  black  silk, 
her  masses  of  brown  hair  glistening  in  the  light  of 
the  lamp  on  the  pulpit,  her  face  partly  in  shadow, 
the  strongest  lines  of  it  thrown  out  into  unusual 
relief,  —  he  was  comparing  this  radiant,  helpful 
woman  with  another  black-dressed  figure,  which 
had  stood  opposite  him  that  morning  in  the  sitting- 
room  of  the  cottage,  a  slender,  mournful  figure, 
with  rigid  hands  and  appealing  eyes.  But  some 
thing  else  than  this,  strongly  as  the  involuntary 


138  THE  BROUGHTON  HOUSE. 

contrast  had  moved  him,  was  in  Sonderby's  mind. 
He  was  thinking  of  himself.  In  the  simple  words 
of  the  minister's  wife  —  nothing  more  in  themselves 
than  what  the  Christian  Church  has  been  reiterat 
ing  for  a  great  many  hundred  years  —  there  had 
come  to  him  a  rebuke  for  his  own  way  of  life. 

"  Purposeless  work ;  "  would  not  that  describe 
much  of  his  existence  ?  So  powerfully  had  the 
events  of  the  last  twenty-four  hours  impressed  his 
emotional  life,  that  he  now  perceived  certain  things 
with  a  strange  vividness,  albeit  they  were  seen  in 
an  atmosphere  as  unreal  as  dreamland. 

As  the  meeting  broke  up,  he  came  to  himself 
with  a  start,  and  would  have  slipped  out  of  the 
door  before  the  others,  had  not  one  of  his  pupils 
stepped  up  to  him  and  asked  about  something  con 
nected  with  the  academy.  He  answered  as  well 
as  he  could,  but  made  clumsy  work  of  it  and  lost 
time,  so  that  when  the  pupil  left  him  and  he 
stooped  down  at  last  for  his  hat,  it  was  only  to  find 
Ruth  Ellerton  standing  by  him  as  he  straightened 
himself  up.  She  already  had  on  her  waterproof, 
and  was  going  home. 

"  Good  evening,  Mr.  Sonderby,"  she  said,  hold 
ing  out  her  hand.  "  It  was  very  good  of  you  to 
come  on  such  a  rainy  night." 

He  murmured  something  or  other. 

"  Didn't  you  think  the  young  people  turned  out 
well?"  she  exclaimed.  "  Some  of  them  came  from 
way  over  on  the  road  to  North  Broughton." 


THE  BROVGHTOX  HOUSE.  139 

"Very  well,"  he  assented,  and  they  walked 
down  to  the  door  together.  She  hesitated  a  mo 
ment  on  the  steps,  over  which  was  playing  a  thin 
line  of  precipitous  drops  from  the  eaves  above. 
She  wanted  to  hold  up  her  best  black  silk  under 
her  waterproof,  but  she  had  in  her  hands  a  Bible, 
hymn-book,  and  package  of  Y.  P.  S.  C.  E.  cards, 
besides  the  parsonage  umbrella.  Sonderby,  by  an 
intuition  remarkable  for  him,  guessed  at  her  di 
lemma,  and  without  a  word  took  her  books  with 
one  hand,  and  held  his  own  umbrella  over  her 
head  with  the  other. 

"  Oh,  thank  you,"  she  cried,  and  they  started 
down  the  hill  toward  the  parsonage.  "  Mr.  Eller- 
ton  is  preaching  down  in  the  Center  to-night, v 
she  explained ;  "  and  so  you  see  I  have  to  carry  my 
own  impedimenta.  He  always  makes  fun  of  me 
for  having  so  much."  The  reaction  from  the  re 
sponsibility  of  leading  the  meeting  made  her  very 
light-hearted. 

"  Won't  you  come  in  ? "  she  asked,  as  they 
reached  the  parsonage  gate. 

"  Just  to  the  piazza,"  he  answered.  He  was 
thinking  that  he  had  lived  three  years  in  Brough- 
ton  and  had  never  taken  a  woman  under  his  um 
brella  in  all  that  time,  and  to-day  he  had  had  two 
there  —  Tryphena  Floyd  and  Ruth  Ellerton. 

;i  I  hope  you  have  had  a  pleasant  Sunday,"  said 
Mrs.  Ellerton,  as  they  stopped  at  her  steps.  "It 
has  been  so  very  dismal  outside." 


140  THE  J3BOUGHTON  HOUSE. 

"  Well,"  he  answered,  handing  the  books  to  her, 
"  I  have  been  doing  some  hard  work." 

"  Have  you  ?  "  she  replied,  gravely.  "  What  was 
it  ? "  She  wanted  to  have  him  come  in,  but  did 
not  dare  ask  him  again. 

"  On  '  Conduction  in  Three  Dimensions,' "  said 
Son  derby. 

"Oh!  "  She  was  waiting  for  him  to  say  some 
thing  more,  and  had  too  much  tact  to  refer  to  that 
which  came  naturally  into  her  mind ;  namely,  his 
working  on  Sunday. 

"  Yes,  but  it's  what  you  would  call  '  purposeless 
work,'  I  suppose."  And  he  added  bluntly,  "You 
hit  me  pretty  hard  to-night. 

She  did  not  know  what  to  say.  "But — "she 
began. 

"I  don't  know  what  I  work  for,"  he  went  on, 
bant  upon  expressing  himself.  "  I  never  have 
known." 

"  Why,"  she  said  slowly,  after  a  long  pause,  "  I 
must  stand  by  what  I  tried  to  say  to  the  young 
people,  Mr.  Sonderby.  If  4  Conduction  in  Three 
Dimensions'  is  what  you  are  best  fitted  for,  then" 
-and  her  voice  trembled  a  little  —  "isn't  that 
what  God  has  given  you  to  do  ?  Only,  one  must 
do  it  unselfishly — for  others  —  because  God  has 
given  it  to  us.  Oughtn't  that  to  give  a  purpose 
to  any  kind  of  work?  " 

The  words  had  come  slower  and  slower  at  the 
last. 


THE  BEOUGHTOS  HOUSE.  141 

He  hesitated  for  an  answer.  The  muffled  rattle 
of  a  wagon  could  be  heard  out  on  the  Xorth 
Broughton  road,  and  the  rain  kept  dripping  from 
the  Virginia  creeper. 

"  I  don't  know."  confessed  Sonderby,  finally. 
•;  Perhaps  so.  Good  night !  " 

"  Good  night !  "  she  said,  and  put  out  her  hand 
again,  but  it  was  so  dark  that  he  did  not  see  it. 


VII. 

NEXT  to  a  rainy  Sunday,  a  wet  Monday  is  per 
haps  the  most  disheartening  punishment  that  the 
goddess  of  New  England  weather  can  impose  upon 
those  who  have  failed  to  propitiate  her.  It  is 
curious,  indeed,  that  Monday  should  be  so  un 
popular  the  world  over.  However  widely  people 
may  differ  in  their  theories  about  Sunday,  they 
agree,  with  a  singular  unanimity,  that  Monday, 
even  under  the  most  favorable  conditions,  is  some 
thing  of  a  trial  to  the  spirit. 

For  those  who  make  Sunday  a  day  of  pleasure- 
seeking,  as  well  as  for  those  who  strive  to  make  it 
a  day  of  grace,  Monday  is  "  the  day  after."  If  it 
happens  to  be  rainy,  so  much  the  more  unfortu 
nate.  City  streets  never  look  so  cheerless  as  on 
such  a  morning,  when  laborers,  demoralized  by 
their  holiday,  go  straggling  to  their  work ;  and 
when  even  those  people  who  on  Sunday  have  made 
high  resolves  and  received  new  inspirations,  find 
their  enthusiasm  chilled  by  the  sweep  of  the  wind 
and  rain  around  the  street  corners,  and  soiled  by 
the  very  sight  of  the  sticky,  slippery  pavements. 
It  seems  discouragingly  hard  to  take  hold,  to  begin 
again,  unless  it  chances  that  one  is  lucky  enough 
142 


THE  BBOUGHTOy  HOUSE.  143 

to  be  so  busy  that  he  cannot  give  a  single  instant 
to  the  analysis  of  his  feelings. 

In  the  country,  too,  a  wet  Monday  morning  is 
universally  resented.  Even  in  those  dry  seasons 
when  the  farmers,  gathering  round  the  steps  of 
the  meeting-house  before  the  Sunday  sermon  com 
mences,  have  agreed  that  it  is  about  time  for  the 
minister  to  begin  to  pray  for  rain,  they  have  a 
suspicion  that  a  showery  Monday  is  too  prompt  a 
response  to  their  wishes  to  be  genuinely  providen 
tial.  But  Broughton  farmers,  in  this  particular 
July,  had  no  need  for  any  rain.  The  haying  was 
late,  as  it  was,  and  the  satisfaction  that  they  had 
experienced  upon  Saturday  afternoon,  in  the  re 
flection  that  if  it  had  to  rain  at  all,  Sunday  was  a 
good  time  for  it  and  it  would  be  over  by  Monda}-, 
gave  way,  by  breakfast-time  on  Monday  morning, 
to  a  philosophic  ugliness  of  temper. 

Over  the  wide  stretches  of  upland  that  made  up 
the  township  of  Broughton  the  clouds  hung  low 
and  heavy,  and  the  rain  still  fell  upon  the  soaked 
meadows  just  as  it  had  been  falling  for  forty  hours. 
The  cattle  in  the  pastures,  who  had  stood  out  in 
the  full  downpouring  of  the  cool  showers  of  Satur 
day  evening,  had  by  this  time  got  heartily  enough 
of  it,  and  stood  huddling  their  steaming  hides  to 
gether  under  the  oaks  and  elms  and  maples,  that 
stood  singly  or  in  groups  of  two  or  three  in  every 
bit  of  pasture-land. 

There  was  more  wind  in  the  tree-tops,  though. 


144  THE  BEOUGHTON  HOUSE. 

than  had  blown  before  since  Saturday,  and  it  came 
in  veering  gusts,  that  to  the  knowing  observers 
indicated  that  the  end  of  the  storm  was  not  many 
hours  away.  Nevertheless,  any  haying  for  that 
day  was  out  of  the  question. 

Tons  of  hungarian  and  timothy,  all  over  the 
township,  had  been  so  long  soaked,  standing  in 
the  meadows  in  half-cured  cocks,  and  so  much  oats 
and  corn  had  been  lodged  by  the  great  wind  of 
Saturday  night,  that  the  farming  folk  of  Broughton 
might  have  been  pardoned  for  feeling  out  of  sorts. 

Yet  a  genuine  New  England  farmer,  no  matter 
how  deep  may  be  his  disgust  at  rain  which  comes 
at  a  wrong  time,  will  rarely  have  any  open  words 
of  discontent  at  the  weather  itself.  He  keeps 
those,  under  such  circumstances,  for  his  wife. 

The  proprietor  of  the  Broughton  House,  however, 
had  no  wife  upon  whom  to  vent  his  wrath,  nor  did 
he  have  any  scruples,  not  being  a  native  of  New 
England,  about  cursing  its  climate.  Poor  Evans 
had  made  many  rash  predictions  on  Saturday 
evening,  and  when  Sunday  proved  them  false,  he 
had  only  plunged  in  deeper  by  vouching  that  the 
Monday  skies  would  be  as  blue  as  Broughton 
winds  could  fan  them.  Here  was  Monday  morning 
come,  and  the  driver  of  the  Center  stage  was 
stamping  with  his  rubber  boots  upon  the  piazza, 
holding  the  dripping  lines  in  his  left  hand,  while 
the  horses  stood  with  drooping  ears  and  sunken 
tails,  as  if  it  were  night  instead  of  morning,  and 


THE  HROVGHTQS  HOUSE.  145 

the  closely  drawn  curtains  of  the  stage  were  already 
splashed  with  mud,  just  in  coming  from  the  post- 
office  to  the  hotel. 

"  All  aboard !  *'  cried  the  lanky  driver  again,  and 
the  lady  with  eyeglasses,  enveloped  in  her  water 
proof,  climbed  in,  followed  by  the  gentleman  inter 
ested  in  Broughton  fishing. 

He  had  been  protesting  in  the  office  against  the 
amount  of  his  bill,  demurring  more  particularly  to 
the  extra  charge  for  the  fire  which  had  been  built 
on  Sunday  morning  in  the  stove  in  the  parlor. 
He  paid  it ;  but  Evans  did  not  feel  inclined  to 
accompany  him  to  the  piazza,  as  Avas  the  Welsh 
man's  custom  with  departing  guests.  The  driver 
buttoned  the  curtains  over  the  door,  stepped  across 
the  wheel  into  the  front  seat,  and  pulling  the  boot 
well  up  around  his  waist,  clucked  to  his  horses  and 
started  off,  but  with  none  of  the  usual  morning 
brilliancy  of  style. 

After  the  stage  had  gone,  the  hotel  seemed 
rather  deserted.  The  remaining  guests  kept  to 
their  rooms.  As  for  the  "regulars,"'  Collins  and 
Sonderb}-  had  had  breakfast  together  without  much 
conversation,  at  the  ordinary  time.  The  teacher 
had  slept  like  one  of  his  own  schoolboys,  and  he 
went  down  to  the  academy  shortly  after  breakfast, 
for  a  dogged  morning's  work.  Mrs.  Floyd  had 
come  over  for  breakfast  very  early,  had  eaten  a 
little,  and  slipped  out  before  any  one  else  entered 
the  dining-room.  Her  husband  did  not  come  at  all. 


146  THE  BROUGHTON  HOUSE. 

The  reason  for  Floyd's  absence  from  Broughton 
at  that  hour  was  perhaps  more  readily  appreciated 
by  Arthur  Ellerton  than  by  any  other  person. 
When  the  minister  rose  at  a  quarter  of  five  to  see 
whether  the  weather  permitted  his  fishing  engage 
ment  with  Collins  to  be  kept,  the  noise  of  the 
shutters,  as  he  turned  them  to  look  out  into  the 
gray  fog  through  which  the  rain  was  sifting,  woke 
Mrs.  Ellerton.  Her  husband  finished  his  brief 
survey  of  the  weather,  and  fond  as  he  was  of  fishing, 
was  not  sorry  at  the  prospect  of  a  couple  of  hours 
more  sleep,  being  tired  after  his  hard  Sunday. 

"  Did  it  go  off  well,  down  at  the  Center,  Ar 
thur  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Ellerton,  drowsily. 

"  First-rate,"  was  the  response,  as  Ellerton  closed 
the  shutters  again,  and  drew  down  the  curtain. 

"  Oh,  by  the  way,  I  saw  our  friend  Floyd  at  the 
Center  hotel,  just  before  the  evening  service." 

"  Did  you  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Ellerton,  more  sleepily 
than  before. 

uHe  was  very  glad  to  see  me.  In  fact,  he 
wanted  to  insist  on  my  taking  a  drink  with 
him." 

"  Arthur  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Ellerton. 

"  Fact.  I  believe  the  clerk  got  him  to  go  to 
bed,  after  a  while,  though.  I'm  sorry  enough." 
And  the  minister,  as  if  in  recognition  of  the  fact 
that  nothing  could  be  done  about  Floyd  then  and 
there,  proceeded  to  go  to  sleep  in  his  sensible  fash 
ion.  But  Ruth  Ellerton  lay  awake,  shocked  and 


THE  BROUGIITOy   HOUSE.  147 

troubled,  until  Mary  Jane  jingled  the  rising-bell 
at  the  foot  of  the  front  stairs. 

In  the  course  of  the  forenoon  a  buggy  from  the 
Center  deposited  Floyd  at  the  cottage  door.  He 
had  slept  off  the  effects  of  his  Sunday  indulgence, 
and  had  nothing  to  remind  him  of  it  except  a  head 
ache  and  a  misty  remembrance  of  having  made  a 
fool  of  himself — somehow,  somewhere  —  in  con 
nection  with  Arthur  Ellerton.  Whatever  may 
have  been  the  welcome  his  wife  gave  him  at  the 
cottage,  the  artist  did  not  remain  there  long  after 
his  return.  He  strolled  over  to  the  Broughton 
House,  turning  up  his  coat-collar  against  the  rain, 
not  seeming  to  care  that  he  was  spoiling  the 
shine  which  his  shoes  had  received  at  the  Center 
hotel. 

Collins  was  in  the  office,  wrapping  a  split  tip 
with  silk,  and  hardly  took  his  eyes  off  his  delicate 
work  as  Floyd  came  in. 

"  Look  out ! "  he  cried,  as  the  artist  was  about  to 
take  the  chair  by  his  side  ;  '•  don't  sit  on  my  glue- 
pot,  man." 

True  enough,  the  chair  held  a  tiny  o-lue-pot 
made  of  brass,  and  a  collection  of  silk  threads  and 
colored  feathers,  from  which  Collins  had  been 
amusing  himself  by  making  some  flies. 

The  artist  took  another  seat  and  stretched  out 
his  feet  to  the  fire.  Bill  Trumbull  made  some  re 
mark  about  the  weather,  with  a  covert  reference  to 
the  state  of  the  roads  between  Broughton  and  the 


148  THE  BROUGHTON  HOUSE. 

Center,  which  Floyd  appeared  not  to  understand. 
When  Collins  finished  winding  the  silk,  and 
fastened  it  with  a  skilful  half-hitch,  he  turned  to 
Floyd  and  regarded  him  a  moment  with  a  kind  of 
grin,  which  might  have  been  construed  as  a  silent 
reflection  upon  the  consequence  of  Floyd's  victory 
at  euchre.  But  he  said  nothing,  and  the  three  sat 
there,  with  Evans  as  a  morose  onlooker  at  Collins's 
deft  handiwork,  until  dinner-time. 

The  quartette  sat  down  together  that  noon,  for 
the  first  time  since  Sunday  morning.  John  Son- 
derby  had  not  seen  Tryphena  since  he  left  her  in 
the  cottage,  and  his  hand  trembled  as  he  unfolded 
his  napkin  and  looked  across  the  table  at  her. 
He  expected  to  detect  some  change  in  her,  or 
at  least  that  there  would  be  some  constraint  in 
her  manner  toward  himself.  But  Mrs.  Floyd  re 
turned  his  gaze  -as  tranquilly  as  she  had  done  at 
any  time  in  the  few  weeks  during  which  he  had 
known  her.  She  even  seemed  more  cheerful  than 
usual,  and  certainly  looked  prettier,  for  she  had 
put  some  white  ruching  in  the  wrists  and  neck  of 
her  black  jersey,  for  the  first  time  since  her  aunt 
had  died.  Was  it  merely  a  whim  of  the  moment, 
like  the  gaiety  of  Sunday  forenoon,  or  was  it  the 
beginning  of  a  deliberate  detachment  of  herself 
from  her  past  life  ?  At  any  rate,  she  was  in  good 
spirits  all  through  dinner.  Floyd  kept  his  peevish 
temper  in  the  background,  and  Sonderby  tried  to 
blot  the  preceding  day  out  of  his  mind  and  to  im- 


THE  BBOUGHTOX  HOUSE.  149 

agine  that  all  was  going  as  well  with  the  Floyds  as 
it  seemed  to. 

Collins  had  had  rather  a  confined  morning,  and 
Avas  the  least  talkative  of  the  four,  but  his  eyes 
went  keenly  from  Floyd  to  Tryphena  more  than 
once  as  the  dinner  progressed. 

While  dessert  was  serving,  Mrs.  Floyd  declared 
that  from  her  seat,  which  commanded  a  glimpse  of 
the  hills  toward  the  southwest,  she  could  see  a  bit 
of  blue  sky.  As  the  rain  was  still  blowing  against 
the  dining-room  windows  every  few  minutes,  the 
others  doubted  her  assertion ;  but  she  claimed  that 
the  drops  on  the  windows  were  shaken  from  the 
elms  and  then  carried  by  the  wind,  as  if  it  were 
real  rain.  By  and  by  she  admitted,  just  as  they 
were  rising  from  the  table,  that  her  blue  sky  had 
in  some  way  disappeared ;  but  when  the  quartette 
went  out  to  the  front  piazza  and  watched  the  west 
wind  send  patches  of  gray  cloud  scudding  over  the 
elm-tops,  so  low  as  almost  to  touch  them,  while  in 
the  northeast  a  blue-black  heap  of  thunder  heads 
kept  piling  itself  higher,  Tryphena  persisted  that  it 
was  nothing  but  "  the  clearing  shower/' 

She  appealed  to  Bill  Trumbull,  who  was  picking 
his  way  across  the  street  to  the  hotel,  after  his 
dinner  in  his  daughter's  house,  to  know  if  she  was 
not  right. 

"  Wai,  I  guess  you  be,"  decided  Bill,  half  because 
he  really  thought  so,  and  half  because  he  didn't 
like  to  disappoint  Tryphena.  However  his  decision 


150  THE  IJROUGHTON  HOUSE. 

was  reached,  it  settled  the  matter,  and  all  agreed 
that  the  wet  spell  was  drawing  to  an  end. 

"  Now  let's  celebrate  by  some  whist,"  cried  Mrs. 
Floyd. 

Collins  assented. 

"  Phenie's  ahead  now,  and  is  more  anxious  to 
play  than  she  was  last  week,"  remarked  Floyd. 

"  Oh,  Floyd,  stop  your  growling,  and  go  and 
get  the  markers,"  ordered  Collins ;  and  the  artist 
shrugged  his  shoulders  and  obeyed.  The  school 
teacher  was  the  only  one  who  seemed  not  to  wish 
to  play. 

"  I  had  something  to  do  at  the  academy,"  he  ex 
plained,  rather  feebly. 

"Since  when?"  said  Collins,  ironically. 

u  Since  the  middle  of  June,"  was  on  Sonderby's 
lips,  when  he  caught  Tryphena's  eyes.  She  was 
looking  at  him  with  that  shy,  friendly  glance, 
which  had  attracted  him  to  her  the  first  day  they 
met. 

"  Please,"  she  whispered. 

She  had  never  said  that  to  him  before,  and  John 
Sonderby  forgot  all  about  certain  resolutions  he 
had  taken  that  morning,  and  the  problems  of  Con 
duction  in  Three  Dimensions. 

For  an  hour  and  a  half  the  quartette  sat  in  the 
hotel  parlor,  around  the  old  mahogany  card-table, 
and  John  Sonderby  and  Tryphena  Floyd  held 
everything. 

At  last    Floyd  threw  up  his  hand  in   disgust. 


THE  BROVGHTOS    HOUSE.  151 

"It's  no  use  today,  Collins,"  he  cried.  "Let's 
have  a  smoke." 

They  all  rose,  and  Tryphena  put  the  table  back 
into  its  place. 

"  "Well,  I  don't  know,"  said  Collins,  taking  out 
his  watch.  "  It's  getting  rather  late.  Suppose  we 
take  another  look  at  the  weather." 

Mrs.  Floyd's  "clearing  shower"  had  not  yet- 
passed,  but  the  rain  was  light  now.  All  overhead 
there  were  thin  places  in  the  clouds,  and  in  the 
west  more  than  one  strip  of  blue.  The  pile  of 
thunder  clouds  in  the  northeast  had  altoo-ether 

o 

sunk  away. 

•k  Sure  enough."  Collins  remarked,  u  that  last 
prediction  of  Bill  Trumbull's  did  the  business. 
Xo,  Floyd,"  he  added ;  "  we'll  take  that  smoke 
another  day.  I'm  going  up  to  call  on  the  parson." 

"  On  the  parson?"  repeated  Tryphena,  in  such 
surprise  that  the  others  laughed  at  Collins's  ex 
pense. 

'•  Exactly,"  replied  Collins,  imperturbably  :  "  the 
parson  and  I  were  going  fishing  this  morning  if  it 
hadn't  rained." 

The    manufacturer    turned    away,   smiling,   and 

t,     -  O  ' 

went  up  to  his  room. 

The  remaining  three  stood  on  the  piazza  a  few 
moments  longer.  Sonderby  thought  of  going  down 
to  the  academy,  to  take  up  the  work  he  had 
planned  for  the  afternoon ;  but  by  this  time  he  was 
in  no  mood  for  it.  and  could  not  bring  himself  to  go. 


152  THE  BROUGHTON   HOUSE. 

"  Sonderby,"  said  Floyd,  yawning,  "  what  do  you 
want  to  do  ?  " 

"  Billy,  wouldn't  it  be  a  good  idea  for  you  to  get 
shaved?"  suggested  Mrs.  Floyd. 

Floyd  passed  his  fingers  over  his  lank,  unshaven 
jaw. 

"  Very  likely,"  he  answered,  although  somewhat 
irritated  by  his  wife's  advice. 

"  I  don't  know  but  I'll  go  over  to  the  barber's 
shop  with  you,  and  sit  around  during  the  opera 
tion,"  volunteered  Sonderby. 

Neither  of  these  men  altogether  liked  the  other, 
but  circumstances  had  thrown  them  so  together 
that  upon  this  afternoon  each  of  them  preferred 
the  other's  company  to  being  left  alone. 

"All  right,"  Floyd  replied,  and  lit  a  cigarette. 
Then  the  two  men  got  their  hats,  and  leaving  Mrs. 
Floyd  to  turn  over  the  papers  in  the  reading-room, 
started  up  the  street  toward  Parkinson's  store. 
The  first  glints  of  sunshine  were  upon  the  elm 
leaves  and  the  grass,  but  the  clayey  soil  of  the 
sidewalk  was  still  slippery,  and  the  road,  where 
they  crossed  it  in  front  of  Parkinson's,  was  ankle- 
deep  with  mud. 

The  "general  store"  of  Mr.  Parkinson  had  been 
familiar  to  Broughton  people  for  a  generation. 
Built  in  the  solid,  ample  style  of  architecture  that 
characterized  the  original  Broughton  tavern,  the 
store  had  been  more  fortunate  than  the  hotel,  in 
preserving  its  original  form  and  something  of  its 


THE  BROVGHTOX  HOUSE.  153 

original  color.  A  dingy  white  was  still  its  pre 
vailing  tone,  though  the  front,  around  the  doors 
and  window-casings,  was  ornamented  with  bands 
of  blue  and  yellow,  the  result  of  a  transient  en 
thusiasm  of  Mr.  Parkinson  for  prepared  mineral 
paints.  A  broad  piazza  ran  along  the  front, 
reached  from  the  sidewalk  by  three  steps,  the 
lower  one  of  which  was  splintered  all  along  its 
edge  by  the  grinding  of  innumerable  wagon-wheels 
against  it.  Standing  on  the  piazza,  between  the 
windows  and  the  door,  were  a  long  box  of  scythe- 
blades,  a  bundle  of  wooden  rakes,  a  patent  three- 
tined  pitchfork,  and  a  pile  of  empty  cheese-boxes 
that  had  been  returned  from  the  Center.  There 
was  a  bench  there  too,  and  a  couple  of  chairs. 
Within,  two  dark-painted  counters,  running  the 
whole  length  of  the  store  on  either  side,  were  laden 
with  the  most  desirable  or  newly  arrived  goods  in 
stock.  The  right  side  of  the  store  was  mainly 
occupied  with  dry  goods :  piles  of  flannel  and 
calico,  packed  away  on  fly-specked  shelves;  blue 
pasteboard  boxes  marked  k*  Buttons,"  Wk  Thread,'' 
"  Hose,"  protected  by  a  sliding  glass  door ;  and  a 
few  rolls  of  black  silks  and  cashmeres.  On  the 
left  were  the  groceries,  boots  and  shoes,  and  the 
hardware.  Overhead,  on  plentiful  hooks,  were  dis 
played  tin  and  wooden  pails,  oil-cans,  rubber  boots, 
lanterns,  and  a  few  choice  hams.  In  the  "L  part," 
at  the  rear,  which  was  accessible  by  a  side  entrance 
to  which  teams  could  drive  up,  was  stored  a  full 


154  THE  TtROUGTiTON  HOUSE. 

line  of  flour  and  feed,  kerosene  oil,  and  molasses, 
together  with  an  assortment  of  single  harnesses, 
marked  down,  and  warranted  for  a  year. 

But  it  Avas  by  virtue  of  its  proprietor,  rather 
than  through  any  distinctive  excellence  or  abun 
dance  of  the  goods  offered  for  sale,  that  Parkinson's 
store  had  gradually  driven  every  rival  establish 
ment  out  of  Broughton,  and  built  up  a  reputation 
among  the  surrounding  towns.  Mr.  Parkinson  was 
a  little  fat  man,  with  a  sleek  laugh,  who  never 
spoke  disrespectfully  of  any  one,  and  asked  no 
one's  advice  in  regard  to  himself. 

He  had  come  to  Broughton  as  a  clerk  in  this 
very  store,  thirty  years  previously,  and  after  a 
while  had  become  partner  and  then  owner.  His 
talent  for  collecting  bills,  and  his  blameless  man 
ner  of  life,  had  given  him  for  years  the  office  of 
treasurer  of  the  parish,  and  his  name  was  often 
mentioned  for  deacon  in  the  church,  though  it  was 
the  opinion  of  the  older  and  most  influential  mem 
bers  of  the  Congregational  body  that  Samuel  Par 
kinson,  in  spite  of  the  gray  in  his  neat  beard,  and 
his  fifty  years,  was  still  too  young  to  serve  in  so 
responsible  and  dignified  a  capacity. 

If  Parkinson  had  any  disappointed  ambitions, 
however,  no  one  ever  knew  it.  He  watched  the 
markets,  was  hospitable  to  all  travelling  salesmen, 
listened  to  the  talk  of  the  farmers  around  his  big 
rusty-bottomed  stove,  and  went  down  to  Boston 
three  or  four  times  a  year  to  look  around  for  him- 


THE  BEOUGHTOX   HOUSE.  155 

self.  He  bought  very  cheap,  and  in  the  majority 
of  cases  sold  very  dear  —  though  there  was  a  mi 
nority  of  magnificent  ••  bargains  at  Parkinson's " 
that  kept  the  housewives  of  Broughtoii  in  a  con 
tinual  nutter. 

Mr.  Parkinson  always  averred  his  regret  that 
his  successive  rivals  in  Broughton  abandoned  the 
effort  to  compete  with  him.  -  Competition  is  the 
life  of  trade,''  he  used  to  repeat,  smilingly,  from 
behind  his  counter ;  but  though  it  may  have  been 
the  life  of  trade,  it  was  generally  the  death,  com 
mercially  speaking,  of  Parkinson's  competitor.  It 
was  in  accordance  wiih  his  amiable  theory  of  politi 
cal  economy  that  he  built,  closely  adjoining  his 
own  store,  a  tiny  one-story  structure,  which  he 
rented  successively  to  a  boot-and-shoe  man,  to  a 
ninety-nine-cent  venture,  —  a  branch  of  the  Center 
establishment,  —  and  to  a  widow,  who,  attracted 
by  the  growing  reputation  of  Broughton  as  a  sum 
mer  resort,  hoped  to  sell  ice-cream,  cake,  and  con 
fectionery  during  the  summer  months. 

From  each  of  these  tenants  Mr.  Parkinson  had 
blandly  required  six  months '  rent  in  advance,  and 
then  had  amused  himself  by  conjecturing  how  long 
the  experiment  would  last,  how  many  customers 
would  be  attracted  to  the  neighborhood  of  his  own 
store  in  the  meantime,  and  how  cheaply  he  could 
buy  in  the  bankrupt  goods  at  the  close.  Brough 
ton  could  support  exactly  one  store,  and  Mr.  Par 
kinson  knew  it. 


156  THE  BROUGHTON  HOUSE. 

His  latest  tenant,  however,  was  less  of  a  rival 
than  any  of  the  preceding  ones,  being  none  other 
than  a  barber. 

A  barber-shop  was  something  entirely  new  in 
Broughton,  and  the  townspeople  looked  upon  its 
striped  pole  with  an  excusable  pride.  From  the 
day  when  the  township  was  settled,  under  the 
stockades  of  a  fort  against  the  Indians,  down  to 
the  time  when  Otto  Meyer,  a  native  of  Bavaria 
and  a  recently  naturalized  citizen  of  the  Center, 
concluded  his  arrangements  with  Samuel  Parkin 
son,  the  good  people  of  Broughton  had  shaved 
themselves  and  cut  their  own  —  or  rather  one  an 
other's  —  hair. 

Of  late,  to  be  sure,  the  village  butcher,  in  his 
leisure  moments,  had  acquired  a  good  deal  of  skill 
in  giving  boys  what  he  called  a  "  fighting  cut,"  for 
the  sum  of  ten  cents  each.  To  the  more  aspiring 
among  the  farmers'  sons,  especially  in  the  winter 
season,  about  the  time  the  annual  singing-school 
commenced  its  sessions,  the  butcher  administered 
his  so-called  "fancy  cut,"  which  left  the  hair 
long  on  top  and  short  up  to  the  ears,  and  which, 
when  treated  plentifully  with  oil,  looked  very 
smooth  and  was  Avell  worth  the  fifteen  cents  it 
cost.  But  the  butcher,  even  in  his  most  ambi 
tious  moods  and  in  spite  of  his  proficiency  with 
keen-edged  tools,  never  dared  to  shave  anybody, 
and  indeed  it  would  have  been  a  gallant  man  who 
would  have  risked  the  operation. 


THE  BBOUGUTOy  HOUSE.  157 

The  male  population  of  Brought  on,  therefore, 
were  favorably  disposed  toward  Otto  Meyer  and 
his  scantily  furnished  shop.  The  smart  pole  took 
away  something  of  the  rusticity  of  Main  Street. 
Some  of  the  younger  men  in  the  village  fell  into 
the  habit  of  getting  shaved  at  Meyer's  regularly, 
and  he  had  also  more  or  less  custom  from  the 
guests  of  the  Broughton  House.  Floyd  had  been 
one  of  his  most  faithful  patrons,  during  the  artist's 
stay  in  town.  Meyer  had  left  Bavaria  to  escape 
military  service  ;  and  Floyd,  finding  that  the  barber 
had  been  in  Munich,  never  tired  of  exchanging 
with  him  impressions  of  that  city.  The  conversa 
tions  were  carried  on  mostly  in  German  ;  for  Floyd 
found  that  he  could  make  himself  understood,  and 
it  rather  tickled  his  fancy  to  lie  back  in  a  barber's 
chair,  up  among  the  hills  of  Broughton,  uid  talk 
familiarly  about  the  Hofbraiierei,  and  the  gilded 
state  chariots  of  the  mad  King  Ludwig.  Meyer's 
knowledge  of  Munich,  to  tell  the  truth,  was  limited 
to  these  two  subjects ;  but  they  possessed  a  peren 
nial  interest,  and  the  more  Meyer  talked  with  Floyd 
about  them,  the  more  fluent  did  the  latter's  vocab 
ulary  become.  By  dint  of  unlearning  all  he  had 
acquired  previous  to  his  emigration  to  America, 
Meyer  had  become  a  very  decent  barber;  but  he 
was  vastly  conceited  about  his  skill,  and  dogmatic 
in  regard  to  everything  that  concerned  his  profes 
sion.  He  did  not  conceal  his  contempt  for  the 
average  inhabitant  of  Broughton,  and  declared 


158  THE  BEOUGHTON  HOUSE. 

that  nothing  but  the  over-supply  of  barbers  at  the 
Center  had  driven  him  up  to  this  hill  town,  ten 
miles  from  a  railroad.  Toward  "  Mr.  Floyt,"  how 
ever,  he  had  a  great  respect,  as  was  due  to  a  man 
who  had  seen  the  world  and  could  therefore  tell 
when  a  razor  was  well  handled. 

When  Sonderby  and  Floyd  tried  the  door  of  the 
barber-shop,  they  found  it  locked. 

"  Where  is  Meyer?  "  Floyd  called  out  to  Parkin 
son,  who  was  standing  in  the  doorway  of  his  store, 
his  hands  behind  his  back,  his  rotund  form  com 
fortably  arrayed  in  white  linen  trousers  and  an 
alpaca  coat. 

"  Meyer,  Mr.  Floyd,  is,  I  presume,  asleep,"  was 
the  bland  answer. 

"  Asleep  ?  "  growled  Sonderby. 

"  Without  doubt,"  continued  the  storekeeper. 
"  On  Mondays,  gentlemen,"  and  Mr.  Parkinson 
brought  his  hands  to  the  front  and  smoothed  out 
with  them  a  wrinkle  in  his  coat,  over  the  pit  of  his 
stomach,  "  Meyer  is  generally  inclined  to  sleep  —  to 
slumber,  I  may  say.  But  I  will  try  to  rouse  him 
if  you  wish  it."  Mr.  Parkinson,  with  a  charitable 
smile  at  the  weakness  of  his  fellow-men,  opened 
the  side  door  of  the  shop,  and  went  up  the  back 
stairs  to  the  room  where  Meyer  slept.  The  Ger 
man  usually  felt  so  lonely  on  Sunday  that  he 
went  down  to  drink  a  glass  of  beer  with  his  com 
rades  at  the  Center;  but  once  there,  he  could 
scarcely  confine  himself  to  the  single  glass  which 


THE  BROUGHTON  HOUSE.  159 

he  usually  mentioned  to  himself  as  his  excuse  for 
going. 

"  Oh,  I  see,"  remarked  Sonderby,  who  had 
never  interested  himself  in  Meyer  enough  to  be 
come  acquainted  with  the  German's  peculiarities. 
He  was  about  to  say  something  more,  but  checked 
himself,  remembering  that  Floyd,  too,  had  spent 
his  Sunday  at  the  Center. 

"  Well,"  said  Floyd,  flushing  somewhat,  "  it's 
none  of  Parkinson's  business."  He  did  not  look 
at  the  school-teacher  as  he  spoke,  but  wondered 
whether  Collins  had  said  anything  about  that 
game  of  euchre.  Sonderby  slapped  vigorously  at 
a  mosquito  that  had  just  alighted  on  his  coat- 
sleeve,  but  made  no  reply. 

Mr.  Parkinson  descended  the  back  stairs  of  the 
shop  and  announced  that  Meyer  would  be  ready 
for  business  directly. 

"  Let's  sit  down  over  here,"  suggested  Sonderby, 
moving  toward  the  bench  on  the  store  piazza  ;  "  we 
might  as  well  be  comfortable."  There  had  grown 
up  some  rivalry  among  the  trio  of  men  at  the 
Broughton  House  about  finding  the  most  easy 
seats  and  making  a  parade  of  their  idleness. 

"I  should  hope  so,"  replied  Floyd.  They 
dropped  heavily  upon  the  bench,  and  leaning  for 
ward,  rested  their  elbows  on  their  knees. 

Collins  went  by  upon  the  other  of  the  street,  on 
his  way  toward  the  parsonage.  He  was  carefully 
dressed,  and  carried  his  gloves  and  a  silver-headed 


160  THE  BEOUGHTON  HOUSE. 

umbrella  in  his  hand.  He  glanced  at  the  store,  in 
passing,  and  waved  his  umbrella  in  recognition  of 
his  acquaintances. 

"  Now  there  goes  a  man,"  remarked  Floyd,  con 
fidentially,  "  who  can  drink  like  a  fish,  if  he  wants 
to,  and  never  show  it.  Oh,  Collins  is  a  deep  one  ! 
He's  a  mighty  moral  fellow,  he  is,  to  go  calling  on 
the  minister  !  "  The  artist  chuckled  in  satisfaction 
at  his  superior  knowledge  of  character. 

Sonderby  resented  that  smirching  laugh.  "  I 
don't  know  anything  against  Collins,"  he  said, 
deliberately. 

"  Oh,  neither  do  I,"  was  the  mocking  response. 
"  Collins  is  quite  a  saint  up  here  in  Broughton. 
But  in  New  York—  He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  Well  ?  "  demanded  Sonderby. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know  anything  about  him,  any 
more  than  you  do." 

«  Why  don't  you  shut  up,  then  ?  " 

It  was  Floyd's  turn  to  take  offence.  "  What's 
the  matter  with  you  ?  "  he  cried,  hotly. 

At  that  instant  Meyer  unlocked  the  front  door 
of  the  shop,  and  sticking  out  his  frowzled  head, 
glanced  around  with  his  sleepy  eyes,  and  called 
"  Next ! "  as  automatically  as  if  he  had  been  work 
ing  all  day.  Both  men  laughed  and  forgot  their 
incipient  quarrel. 

"Go  ahead,  Floyd,"  said  Sonderby.  "I'll  wait. 
If  he  gets  sufficiently  waked  up  on  you,  I'll  take  a 
turn  later." 


THE  BROUGHTOy  HOUSE.  161 

Floyd  disappeared  within  the  barber-shop,  leav 
ing  to  the  school-teacher  the  possession  of  the  bench. 
Mr.  Parkinson  came  to  the  doorway  again,  but 
failed  to  engage  Sonderby  in  conversation,  though 
through  no  fault  of  his  own.  Sonderby  was  some 
what  out  of  temper.  He  had  planned  at  breakfast 
to  work  steadily  this  week,  morning  and  afternoon, 
whatever  happened ;  and  here  was  already  another 
afternoon  spent  like  so  many  previous  ones.  He 
wondered  whether  he  had  will-power  enough  to 
carry  out  anything,  good  or  bad. 

He  was  disgusted  with  Floyd ;  partly  on  account 
of  the  artist's  Sunday  indulgence,  and  partly  on 
account  of  his  just-uttered  insinuations  against 
Collins.  There  was  a  deeper  reason,  too,  for  his 
distrust  of  Floyd ;  but  this  he  could  not  as  yet  for 
mulate  exactly;  he  only  knew  that  since  Sunday 
morning  he  had  been  justified  in  it.  Yet  what  was 
the  use  of  puzzling  and  troubling  himself  any 
longer  about  other  people's  problems  ?  Why  not 
cut  himself  loose  from  it  all,  write  an  acceptance 
to  the  A.  S.  &  F.  Company,  and  leave  at  once  for 
Boston?  Why  not?  It  was  for  the  same  reason 
that  he  did  not  go  to  the  academy  that  afternoon, 
when  Tryphena  Floyd  asked  him  to  stay  and  play 
whist,  and  had  said  ••  Please  '* :  he  could  not  go ; 
that  was  all.  But  whether  it  was  right  or  wrong 
for  him  to  stay,  he  could  not  have  told  for  the 
world.  Whichever  it  was,  he  was  in  an  uncom 
fortable  state  of  moral  irritation. 


162  THE  BEOUGIITON  HOUSE. 

He  was  not  left  long,  however,  to  a  solitary  oc 
cupancy  of  the  store  piazza.  It  was  getting  nearly 
mail  time  ;  the  period  of  the  day  when,  if  at  all,  the 
village  awoke  to  a  semblance  of  life.  The  sun  had 
come  out  at  length  to  stay,  and  was  as  hot  as  if  it 
realized  the  huge  task  of  drying  which  was  await 
ing  it.  Farm  wagons  began  to  rattle  into  Main 
Street,  their  owners  having  found  some  excuse  for 
hitching  up,  toward  the  close  of  an  idle  day,  and 
driving  into  the  village,  even  if  it  were  only  to  call 
at  the  post-office,  and  to  inquire  the  price  of  gran 
ulated  sugar  at  Parkinson's. 

Sonderby  was  watching  one  of  these  wagons, 
which  he  thought  was  from  Calvin  Johnson's,  when 
a  young  fellow  of  nineteen  stepped  jauntily  from 
the  store,  and  after  a  moment's  examination  of  the 
school-teacher,  tapped  him  on  the  shoulder. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Sonderby." 

"  Why  !  Hullo,  Harry,"  exclaimed  Sonderby,  in 
some  surprise.  "  I  didn't  know  you  were  here." 

"  Yes.  Been  up  on  a  vacation  ;  but  I'm  getting 
sick  of  it,"  responded  the  newcomer,  who  had  been 
a  pupil  of  Sonderby  during  the  latter's  first  win 
ter  at  the  academy. 

"  Yes  ?  "  asked  Sonderby,  looking  with  curiosity 
at  the  boy,  as  he  helped  himself  to  a  seat  on  the 
bench,  and  took  out  his  cigarette-case. 

"  Oh,  Lord,  yes !  it's  too  slow.  Have  a  cigar 
ette  ?  "  and  young  Duffield,  albeit  a  trifle  bash 
fully,  extended  his  case  to  his  old  school-teacher, 


THE  BEOUGHTON  HOUSE.  163 

Sonderby  declined.  "How  do  you  like  Bos 
ton  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Tip-top,"  said  Harry,  buoyantly,  giving  a  slight 
hitch  to  his  ready-made  trousers,  to  keep  them 
from  bagging  at  the  knees  as  he  sat.  Sonderby 
noticed  that  his  patent  leather  shoes  were  badly 
worn  off  at  the  heels,  and  wrhile  the  boy  was  light 
ing  a  cigarette  and  sucking  it  into  a  state  of 
animation,  the  school-teacher  studied  his  very  high 
collar,  very  red  tie,  the  brown  Derby  hat,  a  trifle 
stained,  that  he  wore  well  back  on  his  head,  and 
the  heavy  ring  that  adorned  his  little  finger.  Two 
years  had  evidently  done  a  good  deal  for  the 
farmer  boy. 

"  How  are  you  feeling  ? "  inquired  Sonderby, 
who  found  it  hard  to  get  much  variety  into  his 
questions. 

"  Keen  as  a  brier,"  was  the  prompt  response. 

"  You're  with  the  same  firm  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir.  Every  time.  Blank  &  Blank's  "  — 
and  he  named  a  huge  dry  goods  house  —  "is  a 
good  place  to  stick  to,  if  3*011  once  get  in.  They're 
a  square  firm.  Of  course"  —apologetically  — 
"  you  can't  strike  for  big  pay  right  off.  You  have 
to  wait  a  while.  Now  I've  had  an  advance  in  my 
salary  once  already,  and  I'm  going  to  tackle  the 
old  man  for  a  raise  the  first  of  September.  That's 
the  only  way.  Keep  right  at  'em.  Make  'em  give 
it  to  you." 

He  did  not  find  it  necessary  to  explain  that  the 


164  THE  BROUGHTON   HOUSE. 

advance  referred  to  consisted  in  the  change  from 
seven  dollars  a  week  to  eight  —  less  than  day- 
laborers  were  making  on  his  father's  farm. 

"  You  think  you'll  keep  to  dry  goods,  then  ?  " 

"  Certain.  Why,  my  chum  has  only  been  with 
the  house  two  years  longer  than  I  have,  and  he's 
now  a  floor-walker.  Draws  his  fifteen  dollars  every 
Thursday  night." 

Sonderby  did  not  seem  particularly  impressed 
by  this  tale  of  affluence. 

"  Say,  but  ain't  it  quiet  up  here  in  Broughton  ?  " 
Harry  went  on.  "  Makes  a  man  restless,  don't  it?  " 

"Well,  I  don't  know,"  answered  Sonderby, 
doubtfully. 

"  Oh,  it's  all  right  if  you  like  it,"  admitted  the 
boy.  "  Only  it's  dead.  Deader'n  Julius  Caesar. 
There  ain't  anything  going  on.  I  tell  you  I  was 
surprised  to  see  a  barber's  pole  here,  last  week." 

"  He's  a  pretty  good  barber,"  volunteered  Son 
derby. 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  tried  him  Saturday.  Of  course  he 
ain't  what  he'd  have  to  be  at  Young's  or  the  Parker 
House." 

"He  isn't,  eh?"  Sonderby  knew  these  famous 
hostelries  only  by  name. 

"  Oh,  Lord,  no  !  "  From  young  Duffield's  com 
miserating  tone  one  would  have  hardly  suspected 
that  his  acquaintance  with  Young's  and  the 
Parker  House  had  been  gained  simply  by  walking 
by  them. 


THE  BEOUGHTON  HOUSE.  165 

There  was  something  of  a  pause.  Harry  pulled 
out  his  silver  watch,  jingling  the  big  gilded  chain 
as  he  did  so. 

"  Five-three,"  he  remarked.  *•  It  does  beat  the 
record  how  slow  time  goes.  Told  father  I'd  stay 
up  in  the  street  till  six,  and  see  if  there  wasn't 
something  going  on.  Well,  say,  how  do  you  like 
it  here,  Mr.  Sonderby  ?  " 

k>  Very  well,  very  well." 

"I  suppose  so,  or  you  wouldn't  have  stayed  here 
so  long.  Three  years,  ain't  it  ?  " 

ki  Three  years,"  repeated  Sonderby.  ••  It  doesn't 
seem  so  very  long." 

k%  It  don't,  eh  ?  Well,  if  you  ever  get  tired  of  it, 
Mr.  Sonderby,  you'd  better  try  Boston." 

Sonderby  rather  enjoyed  the  youth's  assurance. 

"  You  think  I'd  like  it.  do  you?" 

"  Certain.  Couldn't  help  it.  There's  a  teacher 
now  at  our  boarding-house  :  Professor  —  something 
or  other.  Don't  know  as  I  know  just  where  he 
teaches ;  but  perhaps  if  you  wanted  to  come  down, 
we  could  work  something  through  him.  Say, 
you'll  let  me  know,  won't  you,  if  I  can  do  anything 
for  you?" 

Harry  Duffield  had  had  a  great  respect  for 
Sonderby,  ever  since  the  teacher  had  collared  him 
one  day,  during  that  first  winter,  and  he  would 
have  been  happy  to  use  his  present  superior  posi 
tion  for  the  school-teacher's  good. 

"  Certainly,"  replied  Sonderby.    "  Very  glad  to." 


166  THE  BEOUGHTON  HOUSE. 

"Well,"  said  the  boy,  rising  and  taking  out  his 
watch  again.  "  Five-ten.  Guess  I'm  off.  They'll 
be  looking  for  me  down  home.  Glad  to  have  met 
you,  Mr.  Sonderby." 

Sonderby  got  up  and  shook  hands  with  him. 
There  was  not  so  much  muscle  in  Duffield's  grip 
as  there  had  been  on  the  day  of  their  brief  and 
never-repeated  struggle  at  the  academy.  "  Good 
by,"  said  Sonderby.  "  Good  luck  to  you." 

"  Thank  you.  Same  to  you.  Say,  you'll  let  me 
hear  from  you,  if  you  come,  won't  you  ?  " 

Sonderby  nodded. 

"  Well,  hold  on,"  exclaimed  Harry ;  "  ain't  that 
Calvin  Johnson's  team  ?  What's  the  matter  with 
my  riding  down  home  ?  It  ain't  the  best  walking 
in  the  world  to-day  over  these  backwoods  roads." 

Sonderby  was  well  acquainted  with  the  big  iron- 
gray  farm  horses  that  were  approaching,  having 
worked  through  many  a  long  day  with  them,  the 
preceding  summer.  The  driver  of  the  team  was 
Rufus  Johnson,  Calvin's  oldest  boy,  a  stalwart, 
sunburned  fellow,  somewhere  in  the  twenties.  He 
pulled  up  his  horses  so  that  the  wagon,  upon  which 
rested  a  new  hay-rick,  might  be  weighed  upon  the 
scales,  and  kept  his  seat,  awaiting  Parkinson's 
leisure. 

"  Hello,  Rufe,"  called  out  Duffield. 

"  Hello,  hello ! "  cried  Rufus,  in  return,  and 
twisting  the  lines  around  the  brake,  he  jumped 
clumsily  to  the  ground. 


THE  BEOUGHTON  HOUSE.  167 

"  Glad  to  see  ye,  Harry."  He  mounted  the  steps 
of  the  store,  his  trousers  tucked  into  his  boots,  his 
unstarched  linen  shirt  open  a  little  at  his  powerful 
throat.  Pulling  off  his  broad-brimmed  straw  hat, 
he  mopped  away,  with  the  back  of  his  hand,  the 
sweat  from  his  forehead,  and  shook  hands  with 
young  Duffield.  Then  he  caught  sight  of  the 
school-teacher. 

"  How  d'ye  do,  Mr.  Sonderby,"  he  said,  a  smile 
spreading  over  his  broad  face. 

"How  d'ye  do,"  replied  Sonderby,  putting  his 
hand  into  the  hearty  grip  of  the  young  farmer. 

"I  can  tell  ye  we  miss  ye,"  exclaimed  Rufus. 
"How's  your  muscle?  Arms  sunburned  yet?  I 
told  father  this  morning  that  I  guess  we'd  have  to 
have  Mr.  Sonderby  to  mow  that  swamp  for  us. 
Ain't  forgot  it,  have  ye  ?  " 

"No,"  replied  Sonderby,  with  a  lau^h,  "not 
yet." 

The  year  before  he  and  Rufus  had  started  to 
mow  with  scythes  a  SAvampy  piece  of  meadow  not 
accessible  to  the  mowing-machine,  and,  proud  as 
each  was  of  his  strength,  neither  one  of  them 
wanted  to  try  over  again  which  was  the  stouter 
mower.  Each  had  tried  to  tire  the  other  out  that 
day,  and  both  had  succeeded. 

"Why  don't  ye  come  down  to  see  us?"  de 
manded  Rufus,  hospitably.  "  Mother  keeps  saying 
that  the  maple  syrup  will  be  all  gone  before  Mr. 
Sonderby  gets  a  taste  of  it." 


168  THE  BROUGHTON  HOUSE. 

"  I've  been  meaning  to  come,"  apologized  Son- 
derby.  It  was  the  old  story  among  the  farmers, 
this  reluctance  of  Mr.  Sonderby  to  move  among 
them  socially.  Nothing  but  their  admiration  for 
him  as  a  disciplinarian,  and  perhaps  a  lurking  sym 
pathy  with  his  stubborn  fashion  of  suiting  himself 
in  whatever  he  did,  kept  them  from  taking  serious 
offence. 

"  Wai,  jest  come  right  along,"  reiterated  Rufus. 
"  Ye  don't  have  nothing  to  do,  do  ye  ?  Say,  you're 
stopping  at  the  hotel  now,  ain't  ye  ?  Well,  won't 
ye  tell  that  feller  there  that  does  so  much  fishin' 
that  we've  just  posted  our  brook  ?  Father  says  we 
might  jest  as  well  have  a  few  of  those  trout  our 
selves." 

UA11  right;  I'll  tell  him." 

"  Thank  ye.  Good  day.  Come  down,  won't  ye  ?  " 
Rufus  turned  to  Duffield,  who  had  been  rather  left 
out  of  the  conversation. 

"What  were  you  saying  to  me  a  minute  ago, 
Harry?" 

Duffield  explained  his  unwillingness  to  walk 
over  the  Broughton  roads  when  a  team  was  handy. 

"Sure  'nough.  The  ground  is  a  little  bad. 
Hadn't  really  thought  on't.  Ef  ye '11  wait  jest  a 
minute,  till  I  can  git  my  hay-rick  weighed,  and 
some  salt  and  turpentine,  we'll  go  right  along." 

He  started  in  search  of  Parkinson,  followed  by 
Duffield.  Sonderby  sat  down  again,  eying  the 
pair,  as  Rufus  shouldered  his  way  through  a  group 


THE  BEOUGHTON  HOUSE.  169 

of  loafers  that  had  gathered  by  this  time  at  the 
store  door.  As  the  school-teacher  thought  of  the 
superb  physique  of  the  fellow,  with  a  sort  of  envy, 
too,  of  his  calm,  steady  way,  there  came  suddenly 
into  his  mind  an  old  bit  of  village  gossip  he  had 
once  chanced  to  hear,  which  averred  that  Rufus 
Johnson  had  "  kept  company  "  with  Tryphena  Mor 
ton  the  winter  before  the  latter  went  to  Brooklyn. 

Now  Sonderby's  imaginative  nature  had  never 
become  much  developed,  and  two  months  be 
fore  he  would  have  no  sooner  found  himself 
speculating  on  the  probable  happiness  of  a  marriage 
between  such  persons  as  Tryphena  Morton  and 
Rufus  Johnson,  than  he  could  have  found  himself 
envying  the  young  farmer's  calm  and  steady  way. 
A  temperament  of  this  latter  quality  he  himself 
possessed,  he  had  been  used  to  think,  and  what 
had  he  to  do  with  Broughton's  gossip  about  its 
3~oung  people?  But  just  now  he  could  not  help 
wondering  whether  the  gossip  were  true,  and  what 
Rufus  used  to  talk  about  when  he  went  home  with 
the  girl  from  singing-school,  and  why  Tryphena 
had  not  liked  him,  if  indeed  she  had  not. 

His  speculations  did  not  end  when  Floyd  came 
out  of  the  barber-shop.  In  response  to  Meyer's 
repeated  u  Xext !  *'  and  after  exchanging  a  word 
or  two  with  the  newly  shaven  Floyd,  who  said 
that  he  would  just  stroll  over  to  the  post-office, 
Sonderby  took  his  seat  in  the  barber's  chair  to 
have  his  beard  trimmed.  The  random  word  with 


170  THE  BROUGHTON  HOUSE. 

Floyd  seemed  only  to  intensify  the  curiosity  with 
which  Sonderby's  mind  attacked  the  possibilities  of 
the  case.  He  turned  it  over  and  over,  examining 
what  would  have  been  the  chances  of  Trypheiia's 
being  happy  had  she  never  left  Broughton.  He 
recurred  to  it  with  nervous  pertinacity,  whenever 
the  barber's  efforts  to  engage  him  in  conversation 
diverted  him  for  an  instant  from  the  subject. 
Meyer  persisted  too  in  talking  about  "Mr.  Floyt,"' 
and  found  great  amusement  in  sly  references  to 
the  Center  and  Mr.  Floyd's  Teutonic  appreciation 
of  the  real  uses  of  Sunday,  until  Sonderby,  who 
finally  guessed  that  Meyer  had  seen  the  artist  on 
the  day  before,  stopped  him  in  disgust.  But  clos 
ing  Meyer's  mouth  could  not  keep  Sonderby  from 
thinking  about  a  certain  country  girl  who  had 
gone  down  to  Brooklyn  and  left  behind  her  the 
people  who  knew  her  best.  All  that  had  come  to 
her  since  was  a  consequence  of  that. 

If  Sonderby  did  not  have  at  this  moment  the 
peculiar  moral  insight  that  had  seemed  to  come  to 
his  aid  the  evening  before  as  he  looked  at  the 
problem  of  his  own  life,  he  had  at  least  such  a 
sense  of  detachment  from  the  lives  immediately 
about  him  that  he  was  conscious  of  assuming 
toward  them  a  new  critical  attitude.  The  life  of 
Tryphena  Morton  Floyd  seemed  to  pass  before 
him  for  review,  and  for  the  instant  no  sympathy 
for  her  deflected  his  judgment.  There  reappeared 
to  his  mental  vision  the  figure  of  the  young  fellow 


THE  BEOUGHTOy   HOUSE.  171 

with  whom  he  had  just  been  talking.  —  Harry 
Duffield.  Harry,  too,  had  gone  down  to  the  city : 
Boston  or  Brooklyn,  it  was  all  the  same.  How 
many  thousands  of  these  New  England  farmer  boys 
there  were,  who  drifted  each  year  to  the  larger 
cities,  cheated  first  by  false  ideals  of  the  glories  of 
business  life  behind  a  counter,  and  deliberately 
blinding  themselves  afterwards  to  their  real  sit 
uation  and  prospects !  Retaining  of  their  country 
origin  only  a  certain  physical  endurance,  an  origi 
nality  of  phrase,  and  a  ready  humor  which  made 
them  popular,  how  vain  and  evil  and  small  they 
grew!  With  what  ill-concealed  disdain  did  they 
look  back  upon  the  serious,  simple  toil  of  their 
fathers !  They  got  restless  in  the  country  now 
after  a  few  days ;  the  largeness,  the  slow  patience, 
the  gravity  of  country  life,  was  utterly  gone  from 
them  ;  they  were  flippant,  shallow. 

It  would  have  done  no  good  now  for  Ellerton 
to  repeat  his  merry  catalogue  of  the  great  Ameri 
cans  who  have  sprung  from  obscure  country 
towns;  Sonderby,  in  the  mood  he  was  in,  would 
have  matched  Harry  Duffield  and  other  youths 
like  him  against  all  of  them.  B}-  very  force  of 
contrast,  Sonderby  thought  of  Kufus  Johnson,  the 
grip  of  his  big  fist,  his  kindly,  slow  speech,  and 
his  comrade-like  questions :  "  How's  your  muscle  ?  " 
"Arms  sunburned  yet?"'  There  was  a  man  who 
was  not  out  of  his  place. 

Meyer  had   pulled   the   apron  from   Sonderby's 


172  THE  BEOUGHTON  HOUSE. 

neck  for  the  last  time  and  had  looked  inquiringly 
at  the  school-teacher  for  a  minute  or  so,  before  the 
latter  realized  what  was  going  on.  Then  he  got 
out  of  the  chair,  surveyed  his  beard  in  the  glass, 
paid  Meyer  a  quarter,  —  the  school-teacher  did  not 
have  many  in  his  pocket,  —  and  went  over  to  the 
Broughton  House  for  supper.  But  the  train  of 
thought  which  was  started  in  the  barber-shop  con 
tinued  all  that  evening. 

When  Sonderby  went  to  bed,  lie  looked  out  of 
the  window,  and  felt  the  fresh  northwest  wind  on 
his  face,  and  saw  that  the  sky  was  starry  again. 
The  rainy  spell,  with  the  confinement  and  over 
strained  emotional  life  of  those  two  days,  was  past. 
Yet  he  was  still  thinking  of  Tryphena  Morton  and 
Rufus  Johnson  and  Harry  Dumeld.  As  he  closed 
the  window,  Rufus's  questions  reverted  to  him  once 
more,  and  going  to  the  lamp  that  stood  on  his 
bureau,  he  stretched  out  his  forearm.  The  blue 
veins  crossed  and  knotted  themselves  upon  the 
white  skin,  as  he  clenched  his  fist  and  stiffened  the 
muscles,  but  there  was  no  color  except  faint  blue 
and  white.  The  brown,  which  had  been  burned  so 
deeply  into  his  arms  by  two  months'  exposure  to 
the  sun  as  to  be  visible  far  along  into  the  winter, 
was  all  gone.  The  unused  muscles  were  trem 
bling  already  from  the  violence  of  his  clench. 
Sonderby  dropped  his  hand  moodily,  and  with 
something  of  his  old  habits  as  an  athlete  still  upon 
him,  searched  in  the  bureau  drawer  for  a  tape 


THE  BBOUGHTOy  HOUSE.  173 

measure.  Then  he  pushed  up  his  shirt-sleeve  to 
the  shoulder,  and  doubling  his  arm,  put  the  tape 
around  his  biceps.  He  studied  the  figures  —  once 
-  twice ;  then  with  a  muttered  exclamation  of 
disgust  he  threw  the  tape  into  the  drawer  again, 
as  if  the  dimensions  of  his  upper  arm  were  sym 
bolical  of  a  great  deal.  It  had  measured  fifteen 
inches  before  he  trained  down  for  his  last  boat- 
race  ;  it  was  more  than  fourteen  at  the  end  of  the 
summer  at  Calvin  Johnson's ;  it  was  barely  over 
thirteen  now. 


VIII. 

RUTH  ELLERTON  amused  lier  husband  exceed 
ingly,  albeit  without  any  intention  on  her  part,  by 
her  account  of  the  conversation  she  had  had  with 
Mr.  Collins,  upon  that  Monday  afternoon.  It  was 
not  until  more  than  a  week  after  his  call  that  she 
happened  to  explain  at  length  the  way  in  which 
die  had  entertained  the  manufacturer. 

In  the  absence  of  her  husband,  who  had  driven 
over  to  Canuck  Corner,  in  the  mud,  to  call  on  a 
paralytic  woman,  Mrs.  Ellerton  had  been  sitting  in 
his  study  reading  an  article  on  "  Labor  Troubles," 
in  a  well-known  Review. 

It  was  characteristic  of  Mary  Jane,  who  an 
swered  Mr.  Collins's  ring,  that  knowing  her  mistress 
to  be  in  the  study,  she  opened  the  door  and  ushered 
Mr.  Collins  in  there  at  once,  without  preliminary 
formality.  Mrs.  Ellerton  came  forward  to  meet 
the  caller,  Review  in  hand,  and  it  was  perhaps 
natural  that  they  soon  found  themselves  discussing 
the  article  she  had  been  reading. 

What   Emerson   said   of   the    children  of   New 

England,  as  they  were  in  the  two  decades  of  1820  to 

1840,  that  they  "  were  born  with  knives  in  their 

brains,"  is  as  applicable  to  the  New  Englaiiders  of 

174 


THE  BROUGHTON  HOUSE.  175 

the  last  tAvo  decades  of  the  nineteenth  century  as 
it  was  to  that  earlier  generation.  It  is  even  more 
applicable,  perhaps  ;  for  the  anatomizing  of  society 
is  more  keen  and  thorough,  intellectual  question 
ings  having  taken  a  broader  range  than  they  did 
then,  and  the  development  of  certain  social  tenden 
cies  having  reached  such  a  stage  that  questions 
and  answers  have  been  forced  upon  the  most 
unwilling.  There  is  far  less  interest  in  theological 
controversy  than  there  was  then.  In  spite  of  the 
constant  discussion  of  theological  problems,  and 
the  transient  hubbub  of  excitement  around  some 
subjects  whose  doorways  open  upon  a  theological 
hinge,  people  are  coming  more  and  more  to  a  tacit 
understanding  of  each  other,  and  to  a  willingness 
to  wTork  together  religiously  upon  lines  drawn  far 
within  what  would  fifty  years  ago  have  been 
regarded  as  the  innermost  boundary  between  the 
essentials  and  the  non-essentials.  The  relation  of 
man  to  God,  the  possibility  of  human  knowledge 
in  regard  to  all  the  ways  of  God  to  man,  are  very 
differently  conceived,  and  very  differently  and 
much  less  talked  about,  than  they  were  then. 
They  are  left  to  the  individual  conscience.  The 
public  interest  has  largely  turned  to  the  relations 
of  man  to  man.  Sociology  has  for  the  time  being 
usurped  the  place  of  theology  as  a  subject  for 
popular  discussion  and  debate. 

Ruth  Ellerton  was  a  child  of  her  generation,  a 
generation  which  gives  to  women  the  same  educa- 


176  THE  BEOUGHTON  HOUSE. 

tion  as  to  men,  and  in  so  doing  places  them  under 
equal  obligations  to  face  the  social  questions  of  the 
day.  Born  of  a  family  stock  whose  male  members 
had  followed,  for  the  most  part,  the  ministry  or  the 
law,  the  girl  had  inherited  a  vigorous  intellect,  and 
an  independent  fashion  of  reaching  her  own  con 
clusions.  She  had  the  exceedingly  rare  gift  of 
taking  serious  things  seriously.  One  of  her  earliest 
recollections  was  that  of  lying  awake  at  night,  and 
puzzling  painfully  over  what  had  been  told  her  in 
Sunday-school.  As  she  grew  older,  and  learned 
to  interpret  less  literally  what  she  read  and  heard, 
these  puzzles  of  her  childhood  disappeared  for  the 
most  part,  though  they  came  back  now  and  then  to 
haunt  her  with  a  vague  trouble. 

Her  girlhood,  passed  in  one  of  the  largest  New 
England  cities,  had  brought  to  her  more  respon 
sibility,  and  more  of  an  insight  into  the  social 
condition  of  the  poor  in  town  life,  than  falls  to  the 
share  of  the  average  young  woman.  At  the  time 
of  her  marriage  to  Arthur  Ellerton,  she  was  busy 
ing  herself,  heart  and  soul,  in  an  association  for 
work  among  factory  girls ;  and  was  secretary  and 
treasurer  of  an  organization  for  building  improved 
tenement  houses.  Indeed,  Ellerton  used  to  affirm, 
shaking  his  head  solemnly,  that  it  had  been  a  close 
struggle  between  the  tenement  houses  and  himself, 
as  to  who  should  win  her  permanent  affections ; 
though  Ruth  never  had  any  answer  to  this  accusa 
tion,  except  a  smile. 


THE  BROUGHTOS  HOUSE.  177 

Her  marriage,  and  removal  to  Broughton,  changed 
entirely  the  method  of  her  practical  efforts  in 
benevolence  ;  but  it  did  not  abate  her  interest  in 
the  discussion  of  philanthropic  and  social  topics,  as 
presented  in  papers,  magazines,  and  books.  She 
rarely  had  opportunity  to  talk  about  these  things 
nowadays,  except  with  her  husband,  and  his  ideas 
upon  many  of  the  subjects  that  interested  her  were 
not  particularly  fruitful.  Arthur  Ellerton  had 
never  lain  awake  puzzling  about  anything.  His 
theological  notions  had  been  formed  mainly  in  the 
seminary  of  his  choice,  an  institution  which  kept 
itself  popular  by  the  judiciously  non-committal 
balance  it  managed  to  maintain  upon  points  of 
controversy. 

Having  once  investigated  a  theological  question, 
particularly  if  under  the  guidance  of  one  of  the 
sound  but  fair-minded  professors  he  was  fond  of 
quoting,  Ellerton  never  had  any  desire  to  recur  to 
it  again.  For  himself,  he  had  k4  settled"  it,  and  as 
he  cared  but  little  to  impress  upon  others  the  par 
ticular  shade  of  belief  that  was  his  own,  and  as 
in  the  multiplicity  of  his  pastoral  work  he  found 
scanty  time  for  reading  or  thinking  upon  specula 
tive  subjects,  he  certainly  got  along  under  his 
system  very  well  indeed. 

But  Mrs.  Ellerton  was  surprised — and  in  another 
minister  she  would  have  been  disappointed  —  at 
his  lack  of  interest  in  certain  questions  in  which 
she  had  always  felt  a  vital  concern.  Yet  her  love 


178  THE  BROUGHTON  HOUSE. 

for  him  was  so  great,  and  her  respect  for  his  ability 
and  honesty  so  unswerving,  that  her  surprise  at  her 
husband  usually  merged  into  a  contrite  feeling  that 
perhaps  she  herself  had  not  been  wise  in  giving  the 
matter  so  much  importance. 

She  overlooked,  too,  much  of  her  husband's 
ignorance  about  Young  Women's  Unions,  and  the 
sanitation  of  tenement  houses.  There  was  in 
their  present  parish  but  little  need  of  such  things. 
Scarcely  a  poor  family  was  to  be  found  in  the 
township,  except  at  Canuck  Corner,  and  among 
the  Irish  people  who  were  buying  up  little  by  little 
the  cheaper  farms  in  the  outskirts  of  Broughton, 
along  the  road  to  the  Center.  Grinding  poverty 
and  the  herding  of  people  together  into  foul  quar 
ters,  which  had  created  the  familiar  conditions  for 
Ruth  Ellerton's  city  work,  were  unknown  among 
these  hills.  To  be  sure,  the  problems  involved  in 
the  task  of  stimulating  this  country  town  into  a 
more  vigorous  religious  life  were  extremely  diffi 
cult;  but  Ellerton,  with  health,  courage,  common- 
sense,  and  abundant  consecration,  was  grappling 
with  them  as  best  he  could,  and  learning  some 
thing  every  month.  Arthur  was  doing  so  splen 
didly  in  his  own  parish  work,  Mrs.  Ellerton  often 
reminded  herself,  that  there  was  really  no  necessity 
for  his  filling  his  brain  with  facts  and  theories  about 
systems  of  rent,  co-operative  schemes,  building  as 
sociations,  single-taxes,  rights  of  employees,  and 
obligations  of  employers.  She  had  been  proud 


THE  BROVGHTOy  HOUSE.  179 

enough  of  him  when  there  was  talk  of  forcing  the 
resignation  of  the  village  postmistress,  that  spring, 
because  of  a  change  in  the  national  administration, 
and  Arthur  had  so  far  forgotten  the  conventional 
inactivity  in  politics  expected  of  a  minister  that 
he  had  been  one  to  call  a  meeting  to  protest  against 
the  postmistress's  removal,  and  had  introduced  into 
his  "  long  prayer,"  on  the  next  Sunday  morning,  a 
pointed  reference  to  the  principles  of  civil-service 
reform.  Yes,  Arthur's  heart  was  in  the  right 
place,  she  knew ;  but  nevertheless  she  was  likely 
to  choose  the  hours  when  he  was  away  for  reading 
articles  upon  her  favorite  topics. 

The  entrance  of  Mr.  Collins  into  the  study  at 
the  point  where  the  author  of  the  paper  on  "  Labor 
Troubles  "  had  reached  the  elucidation  of  the  famil 
iar  principle  that  the  interests  of  employer  and  of 
employee,  though  apparently  different,  were  funda 
mentally  the  same,  seemed  to  Mrs.  Ellerton  to  be 
singularly  well-timed.  She  knew  that  Mr.  Collins 
was  a  woollen  manufacturer  ;  and  he  had  hardly- 
seated  himself  and  made  some  polite  remark  about 
her  reading  which  he  had  interrupted,  when  she 
began  to  ply  her  visitor  with  questions  about  the 
subjects  suggested  by  the  article. 

Collins  was  taken  unawares.  He  had  never  had 
a  woman  make  such  inquiries  of  him  before,  and 
the  questions  themselves  were  not  easy  to  answer 
off-hand.  He  had  put  on  his  good  clothes  and 
taken  his  gloves  and  best  umbrella  in  order  to 


180  THE  BBOUGIiTON  HOUSE. 

make  a  call  at  the  parsonage,  and  thus  to  show 
himself  well  disposed  towards  the  minister,  to 
whom  he  had  taken  a  liking.  Certainly  he  had 
not  overlooked  the  fact  that  there  was  a  Mrs. 
Ellerton  at  the  parsonage,  though  in  the  few  min 
utes  that  he  had  seen  her  at  the  Floyds'  he  was 
unable  to  get  any  more  definite  idea  of  her  than 
that  she  was  tall  and  had  a  fine  face.  But  now, 
instead  of  the  leisurely  talk  he  had  expected  with 
Ellerton,  about  the  weather  and  the  fishing,  with 
perhaps  a  few  commonplace  phrases  thrown  in  to 
the  minister's  wife,  whom  he  expected  to  sit  duti 
fully  by,  here  he  was  alone  with  Mrs.  Ellerton,  who 
looked  very  pretty  in  a  close-fitting  gray  dress  with 
a  bunch  of  sweet-peas  in  her  bosom,  but  who  had 
nothing  particularly  dutiful  or  meek  in  her  man 
ner  of  address,  and  who  was  cross-examining  him 
rapidly  about  his  obligations  as  an  employer  of 
labor. 

It  was  rather  hard.  What  added  to  the  pecu 
liarity  of  the  situation  was  the  fact  that  Collins's 
employees  were  at  that  moment  engaged  in  a  long- 
continued  and  sullen  strike ;  and,  though  Mrs. 
Ellerton  was  ignorant  of  this,  Collins  suspected 
that  she  knew  it,  and  winced  more  than  once  under 
her  apparently  innocent  interrogations.  When  he 
gradually  got  over  his  surprise,  however,  and  saw 
that  she  had  a  genuine  interest  in  what  she  was 
talking  about,  and  that  she  really  knew  nothing 
of  the  strike,  he  entered  into  the  spirit  of  the 


THE  BROUGHTOS  HOUSE.  181 

thing  and  told  her  much  that  she  was  curious  to 
know. 

Collins  was  a  thorough-going  business  man,  when 
he  chose  to  be,  and  inherited  from  his  father, 
who  had  established  the  Collins  Woollen  Mills,  a 
shrewdness  and  executive  ability  that  in  times  of 
ordinary  prosperity  had  assured  him  a  liberal  in 
come  and  had  enabled  him  to  extend  widely  the 
original  plant.  But  just  now  the  times  were  hard 
and  apparently  growing  harder,  and  in  the  little 
manufacturing  village  where  Collins,  like  his  father 
before  him,  was  a  virtual  autocrat,  matters  had 
taken  such  an  unpleasant  turn  as  not  only  to  make 
him  glad  to  stay  away  for  a  while,  but  also  to  make 
him  willing  to  inquire  seriously  whether  there 
were  any  real  dangers  —  as  many  people  alleged  — 
which  threatened  the  manufacturing  industries  of 
New  England. 

With  the  best  intentions  in  the  world,  however, 
on  the  part  of  both  Mr.  Collins  and  Mrs.  Ellerton, 
they  could  not  long  stand  on  common  ground  in 
their  discussion  of  the  labor  problem.  He  spoke, 
naturally  enough,  from  the  point  of  view  of  a  busi 
ness  man,  who  had  grown  up  into  the  Collins  Mills, 
and  took  the  world  as  he  found  it.  But  if  Mrs. 
Ellerton  could  not  understand  all  the  technical 
phraseology  employed  in  the  business  world,  which 
Collins  used  as  if  it  were  perfectly  familiar  to  her, 
throwing  in  only  occasionally  a  deferent  "you 
know,''  she  puzzled  him  equally,  if  not  more,  by 


182  THE  BEOUGHTON  HOUSE. 

the  ideal  standards  which  she  insisted  that  every 
employer  should  follow.  Mrs.  Ellerton  was  per 
haps  as  much  indebted  to  Ruskiii  and  Tolstoi  for 
her  political  economy  as  she  was  to  Labor  Bureau 
Reports  and  the  United  States  Census,  and  when 
she  talked  about  "self-sacrifice  in  trade,"  and  the 
"higher  law  binding  upon  capital,"  he  did  not 
have  the  remotest  idea  what  she  was  driving  at. 
They  struggled  on  for  a  while,  but  by  and  by  he 
referred  irreverently  to  her  "  law  of  self-sacrifice 
in  trade  "  as  "  the  blessedness  of  getting  left,"  and 
then  she  suspected  that  lie  recognized  no  higher 
law  in  trade  than  that  of  self-interest,  and  she  was 
quite  sure  of  it  finally  when  her  "  New  Political 
Economy  "  went  dismally  to  wreck  against  his  com 
monplace  but  apparently  incontrovertible  maxim, 
that  "  it  takes  two  to  make  a  bargain." 

Nevertheless,  with  feminine  persistence,  she  did 
not  altogether  abandon  the  field  of  discussion  to 
which  she  had  led  the  conversation.  The  question  of 
the  protective  tariff  was  that  summer  attracting  the 
public  attention  more  than  usually,  and  Ruth  had 
been  trying  diligently  in  her  spare  moments  to  find 
out  exactly  what  were  the  advantages  of  the  high- 
tariff  system  under  which  the  people  of  the  United 
States  were  then  living.  The  more  she  read,  the 
more  sceptical  she  grew  as  to  these  alleged  advan 
tages,  possibly  because  the  most  able  and  attractive 
literature  at  her  disposal  was  Unanimous  in  attack 
ing  the  existing  system.  The  presence  of  Mr. 


THE  BROUGHTOS  HOUSE.  183 

Collins  now  gave  her  the  first  opportunity  she 
had  had  for  months  for  talking  with  a  business 
man  whose  interests  were  closely  concerned  in 
any  proposed  changes  in  tariff  legislation. 

She  was  eager  to  ask  him  about  several  things 
which  her  husband  would  hardly  have  been  ex 
pected  to  know.  But  to  her  astonishment  she 
soon  found  that  Collins  had  never  given  the  subject 
any  thought  worthy  of  the  name.  He  had  inherited 
the  Collins  Woollen  Mills,  and  a  theory  of  the 
paternal  relation  of  the  government  to  them,  at 
the  same  time,  and  did  not  question  either  inheri 
tance.  Surprised  at  a  woman's  interest  in  purely 
economical  subjects,  he  answered  carelessly,  almost 
humorously,  until  he  discovered  that  this  gray- 
eyed,  fresh-cheeked  young  woman  sitting  there  by 
the  pastor's  desk,  her  foot  almost  touching  his  own, 
was  involving  him  in  a  gross  contradiction.  He 
had  assented,  without  thinking  of  the  consequences, 
to  her  postulate  that  the  woollen  manufacturers 
and  the  wool-growers  had  identical  interests,  but 
after  two  or  three  more  of  her  innocent  questions 
he  began  to  stumble,  and  was  forced  to  admit, 
before  her  series  of  interrogations  ended,  that  it 
certainly  looked,  from  the  outside,  as  if  under  the 
present  condition  of  things  the  interests  of  growers 
and  manufacturers  were  diametrically  opposed. 
Then,  in  spite  of  his  politeness,  Collins  began  to 
grow  nettled  at  the  'peculiar  way  the  minister's 
wife  had  of  amusing  a  caller.  She  saw  that  she 


184  THE  BROUGHTON 

was  treading  on  dangerous  ground,  and  was  almost 
minded  to  turn  the  conversation  to  the  subject 
of  the  Broughton  House,  when  a  letter  she 
had  received  that  morning  from  her  old  home 
came  into  her  mind.  The  letter  was  about  tene 
ment  houses,  and  she  could  not  resist  asking  Collins 
about  the  method  of  rent  in  use  at  the  Mills  village. 
He  explained,  a  trifle  impatiently,  the  policy  of  the 
company,  and  heard  with  some  incredulity  her 
excited  exposition  of  the  plan  then  on  trial  by 
the  association  with  which  she  had  been  connected. 
His  impatience  gave  way  to  a  mild  disgust  when 
she  asked  him  about  the  system  of  drainage  in  use 
at  his  company's  cottages.  He  did  not  know  any 
thing  about  the  drainage  in  the  first  place,  and  in 
the  second,  his  vocabulary  for  expressing  himself 
on  such  subjects  had  never  been  tested  by  the 
presence  of  a  feminine  auditor,  and  he  found  the 
conversation  embarrassing.  He  feared,  too,  that  he 
was  not  making  the  best  impression  in  the  world 
on  the  minister's  wife,  and  felt  that  the  fault  lay 
in  her  intruding  her  interest  into  subjects  that 
lay  solely  within  the  scope  of  the  masculine  com 
prehension.  Finally  he  lost  his  temper,  and  in 
defence  of  the  cottages  under  his  control,  asked  by 
way  of  comparison  if  she  had  ever  been  at  Law 
rence  or  Lowell.  On  her  replying  in  the  negative, 
he  used,  in  describing  the  way  the  operatives  along 
the  Merrimac  lived,  a  simile  so  brutal  that  it 
shocked  her,  as  he  intended  it  should,  and  before 


THE  BROUGHTOy  HOUSE.  185 

she  could  fairly  recover  herself,  he  changed  the 
subject  so  markedly  that  she  took  the  hint. 

The  last  five  minutes  of  his  call  were  charming. 
As  if  in  recognition  of  the  fact  that  she  had  been 
boring  him,  Mrs.  Ellerton  did  her  utmost  to  put 
him  in  good  humor,  and  with  a  woman  as  pretty 
as  the  minister's  wife  for  a  hostess,  Collins  was 
not  after  all  a  caller  very  difficult  to  please.  He 
went  away  with  a  delightful,  if  slightly  confused 
impression  of  her,  left  a  message  for  Mr.  Ellerton, 
and  promised  to  come  again. 

When  Mrs.  Ellerton  gave  her  husband,  one  day 
when  she  was  in  the  mood  for  it,  a  detailed  de 
scription  of  her  discussion  with  Collins,  he  went 
from  one  peal  of  laughter  into  another,  and  the 
more  accurate  she  grew  in  her  repetition  of  their 
mutual  questions  and  answers,  the  more  entertain 
ment  did  Ellerton  seem  to  find  in  them.  He  never 
took  his  wife's  researches  into  economic  subjects 
with  quite  the  seriousness  they  deserved,  and,  as 
has  been  said,  he  did  not  share  at  all  her  zeal  for 
the  improvement  of  tenement  houses. 

"  Well,  what  was  that  shocking  tiling  he  said 
about  Lawrence?"  he  asked.  "It  seems  that  that 
put  the  finishing  touch  on  that  frivolous  discus 
sion." 

"Arthur,  it  was  perfect!}'  horrid!"  she  cried, 
earnestly.  "  And  he  said  it  in  such  a  cold-blooded 
way." 

He  waited  for  her  to  repeat  Collins's  remark. 


186  THE  EEOUGHTON  HOUSE. 

"Why,"  and  she  uttered  the  words  as  if  they 
soiled  her  lips,  u  he  said  that  the  operatives  there 
live  like  —  like  worms  in  a  bait-box  —  and  that  the 
factory  owners  don't  mind  it  if  they  do." 

It  was  Ellerton's  turn  to  grow  grave.  "  Rather 
a  forcible  figure  of  speech,  my  dear,  I'll  admit," 
said  he. 

"Well,"  he  added,  after  a  moment's  pause,  in 
which  Mrs.  Ellerton  had  shut  her  eyes  as  if  to 
close  something  out  of  her  vision,  "  I  must  say 
this :  he's  taken  his  comparison  from  something 
he's  familiar  with.  He's  a  fisherman  through  and 
through.  And  that  reminds  me,  if  we're  going 
trouting  together  before  this  season  closes,  I  must 
go  down  to  the  hotel  now,  and  make  an  engage 
ment  with  him." 

Ellerton  crossed  to  his  wife's  chair,  and  bending 
above  her,  kissed  her  forehead. 

"  Good  by,  my  dear,  I'll  make  Collins  take  that 
back.  He  didn't  dream  of  your  really  remember 
ing  it,  I  know.  But  if  there  were  more  people  in 
Lawrence  like  you,  Ruth,  I  don't  doubt  that  it 
would  be  better  for  Lawrence  —  that's  all." 


IX. 


WHEN  Mr.  Ellerton  reached  the  Broughton 
House  in  search  of  Collins,  he  found  the  piazza 
tolerably  well  filled  with  summer  guests,  but  there 
was  no  one  in  the  long  line  of  red  rocking-chairs 
whom  he  recognized.  He  entered  the  office  and 
looked  around  for  some  one  of  whom  he  might 
inquire  for  Collins.  The  room  was  empty,  except 
for  a  couple  of  little  city  misses  in  tennis-suits, 
who  were  laughing  at  the  lithograph  of  Daniel 
Webster.  The  minister  turned  to  go  out  again, 
when  he  met  Bill  Trumbull,  who  was  coming  in. 

"  I  wonder  if  you  can  tell  me  where  I  shall  find 
Mr.  Collins,"  Ellerton  asked  at  a  venture. 

"Wai,  I  guess  so,"  replied  Trumbull,  benevo 
lently,  seating  himself  by  way  of  preliminary  in 
his  cushioned  chair.  "  Let's  see,"  and  he  struck  a 
match  on  the  bottom  of  the  chair,  while  with  the 
forefinger  of  his  left  hand  he  pushed  the  tobacco 
tenderly  into  the  bowl  of  his  pipe.  '•  Mr.  Floyd, 
he's  workin'  this  afternoon.  Got  an  order  for  a 
picture  yesterday,  clear  from  Chicago.  The  school 
teacher,  he's  down  to  the  academy.  Collins  — 
lemme  see ;  Mrs.  Floyd,  she's  gone  red-raspber- 
ryin',  all  alone.  Mr.  Collins,  —  oh,  now,  come  to 

187 


188  THE  BEOUGHTON  HOUSE. 

think  of  it,  I  guess  you'll  find  Mr.  Collins  down  to 
the  Holler,  try  in'  to  git  that  'ere  trout." 

The  minister  sat  down  at  this  point,  yielding  to 
the  spell  that  usually  came  over  those  who  stood 
up  before  the  seated  and  conversationally  inclined 
Trumbull.  "  I  don't  believe  he'll  git  him,"  con 
tinued  Bill.  "  Along  in  June,  when  Mr.  Collins 
come  up  here,  he  says  to  me,  '  Bill,  I  won't  go 
back  without  that  trout  down  in  the  Holler.'  I 
didn't  say  nothin',  but  thinks  I,  you'll  have  to 
ketch  'im  first." 

"  He's  a  big  one,  is  he  ?  "  inquired  the  minister, 
who  remembered  that  Collins  had  said  something 
about  this  fish  on  the  afternoon  at  Floyd's  cottage. 

"  Big  one  ?  "  ejaculated  Bill,  and  he  took  a  long 
pull  at  his  pipe.  "  Of  course  he's  a  big  one. 
When  you  have  a  hole  under  a  rock  like  that,  with 
water  eight  or  ten  foot  deep,  you  don't  ketch  noth- 
in'  else  but  big  ones.  The  little  trout  are  afraid 
to  go  there,  don't  you  see?  Afraid  they'll  git 
gobbled  up  by  the  old  ones.  I  never  yet  see  this 
trout,  though,"  admitted  Bill,  dispassionately; 
"  Collins  says  he's  a  three-pounder." 

"  He  is,  eh  ?  "  cried  Ellerton,  excitedly. 

"  Yes,  sir  !  But  I  don't  think  you  can  ketch 
that  trout  with  a  hook.  I  told  Collins  —  says  I, 
why  don't  you  go  down  there  some  night  with  a 
torch  'n  spear  him?  But  Collins  said  he'd  be  — " 
Trumbull  remembered  he  was  talking  with  the 
minister  and  hesitated  an  instant  —  "  darned  if  he'd 


THE  BROUGHTOX  HOUSE.  189 

spear  that  trout  himself,  or  let  any  one  else  spear 
him,  with  a  lot  more  about  it's  bein'  unsportsman 
like.  Xow,  when  I  was  a  boy.  if  we  couldn't  git 
'em  one  way,  we  would  the  other.  Anything 
to  git  'em.  There  wa'n't  so  much  talk  then  about 
'  sportsmen/  but  we  used  to  git  the  fish,  by 
Johnny  — 

"  Ah,  ha !  "  threw  in  Ellerton,  to  show  his  interest. 
"  Yes,   sir.       Did   you    ever   see    a    three-pound 
trout  ?     Do  you  know  what  they  look  like  ?  " 

fc'Xo,"  answered  Ellerton,  modestly.  The  largest 
brook-trout  he  had  ever  taken  weighed  a  pound  and 
a  quarter,  and  there  had  been  glory  enough  in 
that. 

k-  Wai,  just  look  at  that  mantel-piece."  Bill 
waved  his  pipe  toward  the  fireplace.  ••  Do  you  see 
that  narrer  notch,  not  the  end  one.  but  the  narrer 
one?" 

"Yes,"  said  Ellerton,  who  had  jumped  up  to 
examine  the  mantel-piece. 

"  That  trout  weighed  two  pound  ten  ounces. 
Pretty  close  on  to  three  pounds,  ain't  it  ?  There 
was  a  boy  caught  that  trout,  not  more'n  five  or  six 
years  ago.  Jerked  him  right  out  of  the  water,  with 
a  crooked  hardback  pole ;  'n  I  guess  the  boy  was 
about  as  scared  as  the  fish  was.  Ran  all  the  way 
home,  anyhow,  holclin'  onto  the  trout  with  both 
hands,  'n  draggin'  the  pole  behind  him  along  the 
road.  Didn't  dast  take  the  hook  out  of  his  mouth, 
ye  see,  for  fear  he'd  git  away." 


190  THE  BROUGHTON  HOUSE. 

Ellerton  laughed,  with  a  remembrance  of  his  own 
boyish  rapture,  when  he  caught  his  first  trout,  from 
a  tiny  stream  in  a  Pennsylvania  meadow.  "  What's 
this  end  notch  ?  "  he  asked. 

Bill  Trumbull  settled  himself  more  comfortably 
in  his  chair  and  crossed  his  legs.  "That  end 
notch?"  he  repeated,  as  if  to  give  the  minister  fail- 
warning.  "  That,  sir,  was  cut  close  to  the  end  of 
the  tail  of  the  biggest  trout  that  was  ever  ketched 
in  the  town  of  Broughton."  He  waited  a  moment, 
to  give  these  solemnly  uttered  words  their  due 
impression.  "  That  was  back  toward  the  end  of  the 
war,  in  the  spring  of  1864.  Just  an  even  four 
pounds.  Samuel  Parkinson  weighed  that  trout, 
and  says  he,  '  If  that  fellow  had  had  one  more  fly 
for  breakfast,  he'd  weigh  over  four  pounds.' " 

But  just  here,  in  the  very  prologue  of  the  narra 
tive  Ellerton  knew  was  coming,  it  occurred  to  the 
minister  that  Collins  might  be  catching  a  three- 
pound  trout  at  that  very  moment ;  and  much  as  he 
would  have  enjoyed  the  history  of  the  four-pounder 
taken  in  1864,  the  possibility  of  seeing  the  smaller 
fish  actually  landed  was  more  tempting. 

"  Well,  I  declare,  that  was  a  big  one,"  he  inter 
rupted.  "  Look  here,  Mr.  Trumbull,  do  you  think 
Mr.  Collins  would  mind  my  going  down  there  and 
watching  him  ?  " 

"  I  dunno's  he  would,"  replied  Bill,  slowly,  dis 
simulating  as  well  as  he  could  his  disappointment 
in  not  being  asked  to  finish  his  story.  "  You  know 


THE  BEOUGHTON  HOUSE.  191 

enough  to  keep  still,  don't  ye,  and  keep  out  of 
sight?" 

"  Oh,  yes,"  laughed  Ellerton.  "  How  do  you  get 
down  there  from  here?  I've  never  been  there 
but  once." 

"  Go  right  down  the  cow  lane  behind  the  stable," 
directed  Bill.  "  You'll  have  to  cross  a  little  bit  of 
medder,  but  I  guess  'twas  mowed  yesterday.  Then 
follow  the  path  right  through  the  pasture,  and 
there  you  be." 

"  Thank  you.     I  rather  believe  I'll  go  down." 

"Wai,  I  guess  'twon't  do  no  harm,"  said  Bill, 
with  good  humor  beaming  from  his  mild,  vague 
eyes.  "I  told  Collins,  sez  I,  'that  trout  ain't 
going  to  be  hooked.'  Still,  you  can't  never  tell,  in 
trout-fishm'.  He's  goin'  to  try  a  couple  of  banty 
chickens  for  bait  to-day.  Curious  kind  of  bait,  too, 
now,  ain't  it  ?  " 

"It  is,  indeed,"  replied  the  minister.  "Good 
day,"  and  he  shot  out  of  the  office,  brushing  in  the 
doorway  against  the  two  little  girls  in  tennis-suits, 
who  had  been  listening  with  great  interest  to  the 
conversation,  and  who  were  trying  to  get  up  cour 
age  to  ask  Bill  Trumbull  about  the  stuffed  wild 
cat  in  the  corner.  But  they  did  not  dare,  and  ran 
away  after  a  while,  with  laughing  whispers,  leav 
ing  Bill  to  sit  alone  before  the  fireless  hearth,  and 
to  perfect  certain  commendatory  phrases  about  the 
parson  that  were  forming  themselves  in  his  mind, 


192  THE  BROUGIITON  HOUSE. 

in.  spite  of  liis  chagrin  at  Ellerton's  premature 
departure. 

Ellerton  picked  his  way  through  the  stable-yard, 
vaulted  over  the  bars  into  the  lane  in  a  style  that 
made  the  stable-boy  envious  of  him,  and  walked 
rapidly  down  the  lane  toward  the  Hollow.  It  was 
already  rather  late  in  the  afternoon,  and  a  slight 
film  of  cloud  was  over  the  sky.  Ellerton  had  not 
yet  had  leisure  enough  to  get  acquainted  with 
Broughton  by-paths,  and  he  hesitated  an  instant  at 
the  end  of  the  lane.  On  getting  into  the  meadoAv, 
however,  he  found  a  slender  path  winding  close  to 
the  fence,  among  the  rank  golden-rod,  not  yet  in 
blossom,  and  the  ox-eyed  daisies  and  spirea.  The 
grass  had  been  cut  close  up  to  this  tangled  border 
along  the  fence,  and  lay  in  browning  swathes  just 
as  it  had  fallen.  Beyond  the  meadow,  the  path  led 
over  a  rickety  stone  wall  into  a  pasture,  and  here 
it  wound  up  hill  among  quartzite  bowlders,  and 
through  dark  green  patches  of  sweet-fern,  bright 
ened  here  and  there  by  the  purple  and  white 
blossoms  of  the  twining  morning-glory.  When 
Ellerton  gained  the  summit  of  the  pasture,  the 
Hollow  opened  before  his  feet. 

A  long  pool  lay  gleaming  there  below.  Toward 
it  the  pasture  sloped  steeply  down,  covered  as  on 
the  other  side  of  the  hill  with  detached  bowlders 
and  clumps  of  fern,  only  that  the  northern  slope 
was  colder,  and  wet  with  many  a  tiny  spring,  all 
choked  with  peppermint  and  spearmint. 


THE  BROUGHTON  HOUSE.  193 

At  the  head  of  the  pool,  to  the  right,  was  a 
huge  ledge  with  piles  of  broken  rock,  from  which 
came  the  roar  of  falling  water.  All  along  on  the 
north,  beyond  the  pool  and  facing  Ellerton  as  he 
stood,  extended  this  high  gloomy  ledge,  bending 
gradually  toward  the  west,  so  that  in  the  after 
noon  its  shadow  darkened  the  water.  Two  or 
three  huge  hemlocks  were  growing  at  the  crest  of 
the  ledge,  and  a  pair  of  crows  were  circling  around 
them  excitedly,  though  it  was  long  past  breeding- 
time.  Below  the  hemlocks,  and  covering  much 
of  the  precipice  with  their  lighter  green,  grew 
birches,  soft  maples,  and  hardbacks,  wherever  they 
could  gain  a  foothold  between  the  crevices.  A 
profoundly  quiet  place  the  Hollow  seemed  to  Mr. 
Ellerton,  in  spite  of  the  noise  of  water  and  the 
cawing  of  the  crows,  and  it  seemed  a  trifle  lonely, 
too,  albeit  only  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from  the  vil 
lage  street.  Suddenly  he  caught  sight  of  Collins, 
crouching  in  the  grass  behind  a  long  bowlder  near 
the  head  of  the  pool,  and  all  thought  of  the  land 
scape  went  out  of  his  mind  in  a  moment.  De 
scending  carefully,  though  not  without  dislodging 
a  few  round  stones  which  rolled  down  dangerously 
near  the  water,  he  made  his  way  toward  the  fisher 
man,  creeping  the  last  few  paces  until  he  gained 
the  shelter  of  the  rock  behind  which  Collins  was 
squatted.  The  latter  looked  up  with  a  nod  of 
welcome. 


194  THE  BROUGIITON  HOUSE. 

"Hullo,"  he  said,  as  the  minister  reached  his 
side.  "How  d'ye  do?" 

"  First  rate,"  Ellertoii  whispered.  "  I  hope  I'm 
not  taking  too  much  of  a  liberty." 

"Nonsense!"  replied  Collins,  in  his  low,  vibrant 
bass.  "  And  you  needn't  whisper.  The  water  up 
there  makes  so  much  noise  that  the  fish  can't  hear 
us.  I  doubt  if  they  hear  much,  anyway." 

Ellerton  swung  himself  over  on  his  hip,  and 
stretched  out,  regardless  of  the  damp,  clayey 
bottom. 

"  Look  out  for  my  chickens,"  called  the  fisher 
man,  with  a  smile,  as  the  minister  planted  his  el 
bow  almost  in  a  Derby  hat,  which  lay  bottom 
upwards,  propped  with  a  couple  of  stones.  Eller 
ton  looked  over  into  it,  and  saw  two  newly  hatched 
bantams,  incredibly  small  and  noisy. 

"  I  thought  of  trying  some  partridge  chickens," 
Collins  explained,  "but  they're  too  big  by  this 
time,  even  if  I  could  find  any.  What  do  you  think 
of  the  bantys?" 

"Well,  they're  small  enough,"  answered  Eller 
ton.  "  I've  heard  of  catching  big  trout  with  a 
partridge  chicken,  but  never  saw  it  tried." 

"  I've  seen  a  Canada  Indian  do  it,"  said  Collins, 
"  but  that  isn't  doing  it  myself.  I  tried  the  same 
thing  with  two  young  field-mice  the  other  day,  but 
it  was  no  use.  And  I  had  a  little  green  frog  fas 
tened  to  a  salmon  hook  and  swimming  all  over 
that  hole,  last  night,  but  the  trout  wouldn't  even 


THE  HROUGHTOy   HOUSE.  195 

look  at  him."  Collins  busied  himself,  as  he  spoke, 
with  making  a  gut  slip-noose. 

"  You're  sure  he  is  there  ?  "  inquired  Ellerton. 

"  He  rose  the  other  night  at  a  white  miller-fly," 
replied  Collins,  "but  I  didn't  hook  him.  Oh, 
he's  there  sure  enough.  Just  below  that  little 
whirlpool,  in  line  with  those  brakes,  is  where  he 
rose.  Go  on !  Stick  your  head  up  and  take  a 
good  look  at  it." 

The  minister  peeped  over  the  top  of  the  rock 
and  took  a  long  look,  uttering  under  his  breath 
an  enthusiastic  interjection.  Through  the  ledge, 
above  the  pool,  the  water  had  cut  a  straight,  pol 
ished  channel,  down  which  the  brook  shot  at  tre 
mendous  speed  into  a  round  pot-hole.  The  rocks 
all  around  were  black  and  slippery  with  the  flying 
spray,  and  the  pot-hole  was  white  as  milk  with  the 
churning  swirl  and  the  foam.  As  the  brook  poured 
out  of  its  confined  space  into  the  broad  current  of 
the  pool,  a  big  willow  stump  overhung  the  water, 
on  the  side  nearest  Ellerton,  and  its  roots  seemed 
to  catch  the  mighty  rush  of  the  current,  and  to 
deflect  it  to  the  other  bank,  toward  the  shelving 
ledge  of  rock.  The  fine  purple  rootlets  of  the  tree 
fringed  all  the  nearer  bank,  for  twenty  feet  or 
more  below  the  stump.  From  the  willow  to  the 
opposite  ledge  there  was  a  width  of  a  dozen  or 
fifteen  feet,  and  a  depth  of  ten;  but  the  pool 
shoaled  gradually,  as  it  broadened,  and  though 
along  the  rocky  side  there  was  deep  and  black- 


196  THE  BEOUGHTON   HOUSE. 

looking  water  for  fifty  feet  or  more,  the  lower  end 
of  the  pool  was  shallow,  and  its  bottom  covered 
with  fine  gravel.  Here  the  village  boys  came 
sometimes  to  bathe,  and  once  in  a  great  while  a 
party  of  little  girls,  watched  jealously  by  some 
older  woman,  would  dare  to  invade  the  loneliness 
of  the  Hollow,  in  order  to  dabble  and  wade  in  the 
shallowest  places  of  the  pool,  and  even  to  try 
swimming  across,  at  a  safe  depth,  to  the  ledge  on 
the  northern  side. 

Ellerton's  rock  was  six  or  eight  yards  from  the 
bank,  and  about  the  same  distance  from  the  head 
of  the  pool.  The  water  glided  past  him,  brim 
ming  and  smooth,  and  he  could  look  far  down,  past 
the  purple  fringe  of  willow  roots,  into  the  lucent 
amber-colored  depths.  He  could  almost  see,  by 
the  presentative  power  of  his  fisherman's  imagi 
nation,  that  the  big  trout  was  there. 

"  Well,  I  declare  !  "  he  exclaimed,  sinking  back 
on  the  wet  grass  again.  Collins  grinned  sympa 
thetically. 

"That's  about  right,  isn't  it?"  he  remarked. 
"  And  now  for  my  banty  chicken." 

He  took  one  of  the  tiny  squeaking  things  from 
his  hat,  gently  enough,  and  fitted  its  breast  into 
the  curve  of  a  salmon  hook  so  that  the  point  pro 
truded  half  an  inch  or  so  above  the  bantam's  wing. 
Binding  the  chicken  in  place  with  half  a  dozen 
turns  of  yellow  silk  thread,  he  knotted  a  strip  of 
cork,  to  which  were  fastened  some  feathers,  under 


THE  BROUGHTOS  HOUSE.  197 

the  incipient  tail  of  his  peeping  bait.  Then  hand 
ing  the  chicken  to  Ellerton  to  hold,  he  rapidly  put 
his  rod  together,  measured  with  his  eve  the  dis- 

O  * 

tance  of  the  cast  required,  and  adjusted  his  rod. 
The  long  gut  leader  to  which  the  hook  was  fas 
tened  was  curled  in  tangled  spirals,  and  Collins 
wet  his  fingers  and  pulled  it  straight.  Taking  the 
precious  bait  in  his  left  hand,  he  lifted  the  upper 
pan  of  his  body  cautiously  above  the  rock,  and 
while  Ellerton  lay  flat,  trembling  with  excitement, 
there  was  the  sudden  whistle  of  the  dainty  split 
bamboo  rod.  as  CoLUns's  arm  straightened,  and  the 
bantam  chicken  soared  out  on  the  prettiest  imagin 
able  flight  and  landed  lightly  on  the  head  water  of 
the  pool,  above  the  stump,  just  where  the  last  rip 
ples  from  the  pot-hole  began  to  smooth  themselves. 
Collins's  eye  twinkled:  a  live  chick  was  an  awk 
ward  thing  to  cast,  but  he  had  put  it  on  the  desired 
spot  as  deftly  as  if  it  were  only  an  ordinary  brown 
hackle.  The  chicken  righted  itself  instantly,  as 
its  lesr^  and  winsps  were  free,  and  began  its  flutter 
ing  and  dangerous  voyage  down  stream,  hindered 
rather  than  helped  by  the  cork,  which  had  slipped 
so  far  back  that  it  made  the  chicken's  head  bob 
ridiculously  into  the  water,  every  foot  or  so.  tip 
ping  after  the  manner  of  a  young  peeping  sand 
piper.  There  was  breathless  stillness,  except  for 
the  fine  click  of  the  reel,  as  the  bait  was  swept 
along  toward  the  little  whirlpool  where  the  trout 
had  last  risen.  It  was  just  at  the  spot  in  a  moment 


198  THE  BEOUGHTON   HOUSE. 

more,  then  whirled  twice  or  thrice  in  the  eddy, 
hesitated,  and  floated  on  again  in  its  bobbing, 
splashing,  struggling  fashion ;  but  no  trout  rose  at 
it.  The  twinkle  went  out  of  Collins's  face :  he 
leaned  far  over  and  began  to  let  out  line,  as  the 
bait  was  carried  down  the  pool,  just  outside  of  the 
dark  shelf  of  rock,  in  the  shadow  of  the  trees. 
Fifteen  —  eighteen —  twenty  yards  of  line  were  out 
besides  a  six-foot  leader,  when  Collins  drew  the 
bait  across  the  lower  end  of  the  pool,  just  where 
the  stream  began  to  ripple  again,  and  commenced 
to  reel  in,  without  a  word.  When  the  bait  had 
crept  up  the  nearer  side  of  the  pool  to  within  a  few 
yards,  Collins  lifted  it  out  of  the  water  and  caught 
it  in  his  hand,  as  it  swung  dangling  past  him. 

"  The  cork's  no  help,"  he  remarked,  examining 
the  panting,  drenched  atom  of  yellow  fuzz  that  lay 
in  his  palm.  "  D'you  think  he'd  float  again  with 
out  it?" 

Ellerton  nodded  his  assent,  despite  a  certain 
sneaking  pity  for  the  chicken. 

Collins  pulled  out  a  penknife  and  cut  the  cork 
loose.  He  stood  the  chicken  up  on  his  palm,  and 
laughed  at  its  unsteady  efforts  to  keep  its  feet,  and 
at  the  pertness  of  its  black  eyes.  Then  he  tossed 
it  into  the  air,  and  the  eight-ounce  rod  threw  it 
lightly  up  the  pool  again,  this  time  placing  it  under 
the  willow  stump,  in  quieter  water.  There  was 
less  splashing,  too,  as  the  chicken  got  itself  right 
side  up,  though  without  the  cork  it  floated  steadier 


THE  BEOUGHTON  HOUSE.  199 

than  before.  Again  it  was  carried  over  toward  the 
ledge,  paused  in  the  eddies,  and  began  to  glide 
down  past  the  blackest  water.  Feebler  and  feebler 
grew  the  struggles  and  the  peepings,  more  and 
more  often  did  the  tiny  yellow  head  go  out  of  sight. 
Collins  shook  the  tip  of  his  rod  a  little  to  make 
the  motion  of  the  bait  more  lifelike,  and  drew  it 
back  and  forth  along  the  lower  pool,  but  all  in 
vain.  The  three-pounder  was  either  sulky  or  not 
hungry.  When  the  bait  floated  over  into  the  shal 
lowest  water,  a  dace  nibbled  at  it,  to  Collinses  silent 
wrath.  He  jerked  it  away  and  drew  it  up  stream, 
rather  limp  now,  and  soaked  out  of  much  resem 
blance  to  a  saucy  bantam  chick.  When  it  was 
opposite  the  rock  Collins  whipped  it  out  of  the 
water,  and  with  scarcely  a  motion  of  his  supple 
wrist  sent  it  across  the  pool  again,  below  the  eddy, 
and  drew  it  straight  in  toward  him  rapidly,  in  a 
discontented  fashion.  Almost  automatically,  and 
hardly  glancing  at  the  hook,  he  repeated  this,  twice, 
three  times,  apparently  making  up  his  mind  whether 
it  would  be  worth  while  to  try  the  other  chicken. 
But  the  third  time,  as  he  pulled  the  bait  in  over 
the  water  and  was  just  snapping  it  carelessly  into 
the  air  toward  the  rock,  there  was  an  eager  rush 
and  a  cleaving  splash,  and  the  huge  trout,  in  hot 
pursuit,  leaped  half  out  of  the  water  like  a  salmon, 
with  wide-open  mouth,  and  missing  the  yellow 
morsel,  was  driven  straight  toward  the  bank  by 
the  impetus  of  its  spring,  so  that  both  men  saw  it 


200  THE  SEOUGIITON  HOUSE. 

clearly  as  it  shot  forward,  then  turned,  with  a  sin 
gle  sullen  nap  of  its  broad  tail,  and  darted  off  into 
deeper  water  again. 

The  men  looked  at  each  other  with  dilating  eyes, 
and  each  caught  his  breath.  Collins  sank  on  his 
knees,  twitched  the  wet  bantam  chicken,  in  his 
excitement,  right  into  the  minister's  face,  then 
grabbed  it  and  tried  to  untie  the  silk,  but,  old 
fisherman  that  he  was,  his  hand  trembled  so  that 
he  failed  to  hold  the  knot. 

"  Untie  it,"  he  whispered. 

Ellerton  took  the  chicken  in  his  palm.  It  was 
quite  dead. 

"Cut  it,"  ordered  Collins.  "No,  it's  got  to  be 
untied;  I  haven't  any  more  silk.  Wait  a  minute." 
He  pulled  out  a  cigar  and  lit  it  nervously. 

But  Ellerton  had  already  taken  the  thread  off, 
and  laid  the  dead  chicken  on  the  rock. 

"  Now  my  hat,  quick  !  "  cried  Collins.  "  We've 
got  to  try  him  with  this  other  one  :  he  won't  come 
over  here  again." 

He  tied  the  second  chicken  to  the  hook,  swiftly, 
puffing  hard  at  his  cigar.  It  took  a  minute,  this 
changing  of  the  bait,  but  it  seemed  like  ten.  When 
all  was  ready  he  crawled  out  to  the  end  of  the 
rock,  cautiously,  exposing  nothing  but  his  arm  and 
head.  Ellerton  lay  beside  him,  flat  on  his  stomach 
in  the  wire-grass.  The  sun  was  down  almost  below 
the  northwest  bend  in  the  ledge,  and  just  as  Collins 
dragged  himself  forward  the  last  inch,  and  took,  a 


THE  BEOUGHTOS  HOUSE.  201 

firm  grasp  of  the  butt  of  his  rod,  a  shadow  came 
quite  over  the  water,  and  a  hundred  little  ripples 
shivered  across  it. 

"Xow  for  you,"  muttered  Collins;  and  once 
more  the  rod  whistled  and  the  bait  new  out  over 
the  steel-gray  pool. 

It  was  a  nervous  cast  though,  and  fell  short. 
But  that  was  no  matter.  The  bantam  shook  its 
downy  wings,  drifted  free  of  the  outer  circle  of  the 
eddy  where  it  had  fallen,  and  floated  off,  squeak 
ing,  just  below  the  clump  of  brakes  that  bent  down 
into  the  water.  But  there  the  big  trout,  not  to  be 
foiled  a  second  time,  darted  up  from  his  lurking- 
place,  and  with  the  waters  swirling  all  around  him  as 
he  leaped,  closed  his  wide  jaws  over  the  trembling, 
frightened  bit  of  yellow  fuzz,  and,  with  a  vicious 
sideways  shake  of  the  head,  plunged  straight  for 
the  bottom.  Collins  struck  sharply,  jumping  to  his 
feet,  but  the  rod  straightened  in  his  hand,  and  the 
empty  line  flew  back  into  the  air. 

The  three-pounder  had  caught  the  leader  between 
his  teeth  and  cut  it  as  if  with  scissors. 

Collins  stood  motionless  for  twenty  seconds,  star 
ing  blankly  at  the  water.  Then  he  took  his  thumb 
from  the  reel,  letting  it  buzz  until  the  line  was 
wound,  and  then  began  to  unjoint  his  rod, 
silently. 

Ellerton,  watching  his  smooth,  olive  face,  clear- 
cut  chin,  and  square  shoulders,  caught  for  a  mo 
ment  a  fanciful  resemblance  between  the  manufac- 


202  THE  JU?OUGIITON  HOUSE. 

turer  and  Napoleon  Bonaparte.  Perhaps  that  was 
why  he  exclaimed : 

"  Well,  I  declare  !     That  was  a  Waterloo." 

Collins  turned  and  looked  at  him  with  his  lumi 
nous  black  eyes,  not  knowing  whether  to  laugh  or 
swear.  He  compromised  by  pulling  out  another 
cigar,  and  offering  it  to  the  parson.  Ellerton, 
though  the  most  abstemious  of  smokers,  took  it,  as 
the  most  practical  expression  of  his  sympathy  for 
the  fisherman's  feelings,  and,  borrowing  Collins's 
cigar  for  a  light,  he  blew  out  two  or  three  mouth- 
fuls  of  smoke  before  the  manufacturer  had  said 
anything. 

"  Hang  it ! "  finally  ejaculated  Collins.  "  I  ought 
to  have  had  a  wire  leader."  He  picked  up  his  hat 
and  put  it  on,  and  then  taking  the  draggled,  origi 
nal  chicken  from  the  rock  where  Ellerton  had  laid 
it,  and  jerking  it  spitefully  down  to  the  dace  in  the 
shallows,  he  sat  down  on  the  rock  himself  and 
crossed  one  knee  over  the  other.  Ellerton  stood 
in  front  of  him,  brushing  ineffectually  with  one 
hand  the  wet  clay  from  the  knees  of  his  ministerial 
trousers. 

"  Well,"  demanded  Collins,  his  deep  voice  shak 
ing  yet  from  the  excitement  he  had  been  under, 
"  what  do  you  think  of  him  ?  " 

"  Think  of  him  !  "  replied  Ellerton  ;  "  I  saw  him  ! 
I  didn't  suppose  a  trout  that  size  ever  grew." 

Collins  smiled  at  the  boyish  sparkle  of  enthusi 
asm  in  the  minister's  eyes.  "  Oh,  they  grow,"  he 


THE  BEOUGHTON  HOUSE.  203 

exclaimed,  knocking  the  ashes  off  his  cigar ;  "  the 
thing  is  to  hook  'em." 

"  Let  me  look  at  the  gut,"  said  Ellerton. 

Collins  took  it  out  of  his  pocket,  and  they  scru 
tinized  together  the  clean  cut  where  the  trout's 
teeth  had  severed  it. 

"  Yes,"  remarked  the  minister  ;  "  I  suppose  wire 
would  have  been  better." 

It  is  an  unusually  genial  fisherman  who  can 
allow  any  one  else  to  join,  even  most  indirectly,  in 
the  criticism  of  his  own  methods  of  procedure,  and 
there  was  some  asperity  in  Collins's  tone  as  he  re 
plied,  "  But  I  didn't  have  any.  Didn't  bring  any 
with  me,  and  there  isn't  one  within  twenty  miles. 
It  wouldn't  do  any  good  now,"  he  added ;  "  this 
chicken  business  is  played  out.  I  shall  have  to 
wait  till  he  has  digested  that  salmon  hook,  any 
way." 

"  Don't  you  think  he'd  rise  to  bait  again  ?  " 

"Not  right  off,"  was  the  response,  and  Collins 
twinkled  grimly ;  "  not  to-night  or  to-morrow.  I 
propose  to  have  him  yet,  though,"  he  said,  after  a 
moment's  silence,  "game-law  or  none.  There  are 
eight  days  before  the  first  of  August,  anyhow." 

"I  suppose  you  could  spear  him  at  night, 
couldn't  you?"  suggested  Ellerton,  remembering 
what  Bill  Trumbull  had  said  at  the  hotel. 

"  Spear  him  ? "  repeated  Collins,  wrathfully. 
"  Of  course  I  could  if  I  wanted  to.  So  could  any 
pot-hunter.  I  told  Bill  Trumbull  that  when  I  sank 


204  THE  BEOUGIITON  HOUSE. 

so  low  as  to  spear  that  trout,  because  I  couldn't 
hook  him,  I'd  never  show  my  head  in  Broughton 
again." 

The  minister  changed  the  subject,  judiciously. 
"  I  suppose  Bill  has  been  something  of  a  fisher 
man,  in  his  way,  hasn't  he  ?  " 

"  Bill?  "  inquired  Collins,  relaxing.  "I  shouldn't 
wonder.  But  it  won't  do  for  me  to  spoil  any  of 
his  stories  by  telling  them  myself.  I  half  wish  he'd 
seen  that  fish  in  there,  this  afternoon,"  and  Collins 
shifted  his  position  so  as  to  take  a  regretful  look 
at  the  surface  of  the  pool ;  "  it  would  have  been 
enough  to  keep  him  going  for  a  year." 

Ellerton  walked  over  to  the  bank  and  stood  with 
his  hands  in  his  pockets,  gazing  down  at  the  wav 
ing  willow  roots.  A  frog  leaped  from  under  his 
feet  into  the  water,  and  the  sudden  splash  made 
both  men  start,  and  then  look  smilingly  at  each 
other. 

"  No,"  said  Collins ;  "  that  trout  won't  jump 
again  for  us  to-night.  We  might  as  well  go 
home." 

"Sure  enough,"  replied  the  minister,  glancing 
at  his  watch ;  "  it's  supper-time.  By  the  way,  when 
can  we  have  the  little  fishing-trip  that  that  rainy 
Monday  spoiled  for  us  ?  " 

"  Oh,  any  time,"  answered  Collins,  cordially ; 
"  only  it  must  be  pretty  soon  ;  "  and  they  debated 
for  some  minutes  before  they  could  find  a  day  and 
hour  for  which  Ellerton  had  not  some  engagement. 


THE  BKOUGHTON  HOUSE.  205 

The  talk  grew  rather  aimless  after  that,  and  by  and 
by  they  started  up  the  hill  toward  the  village,  Eller- 
ton  halting  more  than  once  to  look  back  into  the 
Hollow,  where  the  pool  stretched  black  and  still. 
He  forgot  all  about  the  conversation  he  had  meant 
to  have  with  Collins  on  one  or  two  of  the  subjects 
his  wife  had  discussed  with  the  manufacturer. 
He  had  intended  to  ask  Collins  what  he  really 
meant  about  the  state  of  things  in  Lawrence,  and 
whether  it  was  the  fault  of  the  mill-owners,  the 
operatives,  or  the  churches.  He  had  had  a  desire 
to  know  how  his  new  acquaintance  stood  on  some 
of  these  social  questions,  not  so  much  in  the  hope 
of  getting  light  on  the  questions  themselves,  as  was 
the  case  with  his  wife,  but  rather  with  the  pur 
pose  of  rinding  out  what  manner  of  man  this  dark- 
faced,  gentlemanly  sportsman  was.  He  thought 
that  the  minister  in  the  village  where  the  Collins 
Mills  were  situated  was  an  acquaintance  of  his, 
and  by  asking  Collins  about  it  he  had  hoped  to 
discover  what  was  the  manufacturer's  own  attitude 
towrard  the  church.  But  all  these  desires,  sincere 
as  they  were,  were  for  the  time  being  obliterated 
by  the  hearty  natural  interest  he  had  taken  in  Col 
lins  as  a  fisherman,  and  so  it  was  about  trout  and 
salmon  and  related  themes,  and  not  about  mills  and 
churches,  that  the  two  men  continued  to  talk,  as 
they  followed  the  winding  path  up  the  hill. 

It  was  only  a  quarter  of    an  hour  before    that 
Mrs.  Floyd,  returning  from  her  solitary  expedition 


206  THE  BEOUGIITON  HOUSE. 

to  a  neighboring  pasture,  had  set  down  her  heaped 
pail  of  red  raspberries  by  the  bars,  at  the  summit 
of  the  hill,  while  she  clambered  over.  She  had 
rested  there  a  few  minutes,  leaning  her  hands  011 
the  top  bar,  looking  down  into  the  darkening  Hol 
low,  ignorant  of  the  presence  of  the  fishermen,  and 
thinking  of  the  first  time  she  had  gone  there  to 
bathe  in  the  shallow  part  of  the  pool.  How  the 
water  had  frightened  her,  as  it  stole  up  over  her 
knees,  and  how  dear  Aunt  Tryphosa,  sitting  on  the 
bank,  had  shaken  and  squealed  with  laughter! 
Then  Tryphena  Morton  Floyd  looked  down  at  her 
stained  fingers,  all  scratched  with  the  thorns  of  the 
raspberry  bushes,  and  wondered  how  many  times, 
when  a  child,  her  fingers  had  rested  here  on  the 
bars,  tinier  fingers  then,  and  browner,  but  just  as 
scratched  and  stained.  Somehow  the  pail  seemed 
heavier  when  she  took  it  up  again,  and  she  stum 
bled  slightly  more  than  once,  as  she  followed  the 
lonely  path  through  the  meadow  to  the  cottage. 

" Hullo!  "  said  Collins,  as  the  two  men  reached 
the  top  of  the  ascent,  and  got  over  the  bars. 
"  Some  one  has  spilt  some  berries,"  and  picking  up 
and  tossing  into  his  mouth  three  or  four  big  rasp 
berries  that  were  lying  under  the  lowest  rail,  he 
answered  one  of  Ellerton's  queries  about  the 
Rangely  Lakes,  and  they  sauntered  on  towards  the 
hotel. 


X. 


THE  order  for  a  picture  which  Floyd  had  re 
ceived  from  Chicago  was  given  by  old  Watson. 
Nearly  two  weeks  had  passed  since  that  hot  morn 
ing  when  Mrs.  Floyd  had  torn  Watson's  first  letter 
in  two,  and  tossed  the  pieces  at  her  husband's  feet. 
Day  after  day,  in  this  slow  interval  of  time,  Floyd 
had  managed  to  be  at  the  post-office  in  the  after 
noon  when  the  mail  was  opened.  He  had  gone 
with  no  definite  expectations,  for  he  knew  that  the 
eccentric  broker  would  not  be  likely  to  refer  again 
to  the  return  to  Munich  until  the  month  was  past, 
and  yet  he  had  a  restless  feeling  that  something 
important  might  come  for  him  at  any  time. 

On  the  afternoon  when  the  sallow  postmistress 
handed  him  a  second  letter  addressed  in  the 
cramped,  familiar  hand,  it  happened  that  Collins 
was  in  the  company  of  the  artist. 

Floyd's  first  impulse  was  to  thrust  the  letter  into 
his  pocket,  unread ;  but  knowing  that  Collins's  eye 
was  upon  him,  he  decided  to  tear  it  open,  and  did 
so  with  affected  carelessness.  But  his  hand  shook 
a  little  notwithstanding,  and  in  his  jerk  at  the  end 
of  the  envelope  he  tore  the  enclosed  note  half 
across.  It  was  an  unpleasant  reminder  of  the  fate 

207 


208  THE  miOUGUTON   HOUSE. 

of  Watson's  iirst  communication.  An  eager  look 
came  into  his  palish  eyes  as  he  read. 

"  Hullo  !  "  he  muttered,  "  I'm  in  luck ;  "  and, 
determining  to  carry  matters  through  as  uncon 
cernedly  as  lie  had  begun,  he  passed  the  single 
blotted  page  to  Collins. 

The  manufacturer  ran  his  eye  over  it.  "  Humph !  " 
he  exclaimed.  "Two  hundred  and  seventy-five 
dollars  for  a  small  picture ;  I  should  think  that 
was  doing  very  well.  It's  more  than  I'd  give  you, 
Floyd,  anyway.  But  can  you  paint  it  in  two 
weeks  ?  " 

Floyd  took  the  letter  again  and  studied  the  date. 
Cunning  old  Watson  had  not  written  a  word  about 
Germany,  but  the  price  he  offered  for  a  picture 
"about  12  x  17"  was  exactly  the  amount  of  the 
first  check  he  had  ever  sent  Floyd,  to  pay  his 
expenses  over  to  Munich,  and  the  date  by  which 
the  picture  was  to  be  done  was  set  exactly  a  month 
later  than  his  letter  of  two  weeks  before. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  replied  Floyd,  "  I  can  paint  it  in  two 
weeks  easily."  As  they  walked  back  to  the  hotel 
he  talked  with  noteworthy  gravity  and  conceit 
about  his  powers  of  rapid  execution,  but  Collins 
did  not  seem  to  be  profoundly  impressed.  How 
ever,  as  they  reached  the  Broughton  House,  he 
said: 

"  Now,  look  here,  Floyd.  In  honor  of  your  luck 
we'll  have  a  game  of  euchre,  if  you  say  so.  You 
can't  go  to  work  to-night." 


THE  BROUGHT03  HOUSE.  209 

The  artist  scowled,  perhaps  at  some  inglorious 
recollection.  "  Oh,  I  don't  mind,''  he  assented. 
"  Only  it  mustn't  be  for  long/'  he  added,  with  a 
deprecatory  meaning  that  Collins  understood. 

"  All  right,"  smiled  the  latter,  and  entered  the 
office  to  drop  a  discreet  word  into  the  Welshman's 
ear.  But  Collins  kept  the  agreement,  and  the 
game  of  euchre  was  a  brief  one. 

Next  morning  the  artist  turned  over  the  contents 
of  his  portfolio  in  search  of  some  sketch  that  he 
might  use  for  the  picture.  He  thought  at  first  of 
the  old  mill,  out  on  the  North  Broughton  road ;  but 
he  could  scarcely  finish  that  in  the  required  time, 
and  besides,  he  knew  that  Watson's  preference 
would  be  for  figure -painting  rather  than  for  land 
scape.  He  hesitated  a  moment,  too,  over  the 
hastily  executed  portrait  of  Sonderby,  and  was 
surprised  by  its  evident  excellence  into  thinking 
that  he  might  dress  up  the  figure  in  armor  and  vel 
vet —  if  his  studio  were  only  accessible  —  and  call  it 
an  imaginary  portrait  of  some  mediaeval  character. 
But  this  was  only  a  passing  fancy.  He  finally  hit 
upon  a  Venetian  sketch  —  a  girl  leaning  upon  a 
fountain  —  as  something  which  would  please  Wat 
son,  and  which  he  could  easily  reproduce  in  oil. 
He  had  sketched  in  the  fountain  with  considerable 
care,  originally,  and  all  that  he  wished  for  a  back 
ground  —  the  fa§ade  of  a  palace  and  a  glimpse  of  a 
canal  —  his  other  Venetian  drawings  could  easily 
supply.  To  be  sure,  he  needed  a  model ;  but  Try- 


210  THE  BEOUGIITON  HOUSE. 

phena  had  often  posed  for  him  before,  and  he  saw 
no  reason  why  she  should  now  refuse. 

He  had  not  spoken  to  her  of  the  order  he  had 
received  until  breakfast-time,  in  the  presence  of 
Collins  and  Sonderby,  the  latter  of  whom  showed 
much  interest  in  the  artist's  good  fortune.  Try- 
phena  listened  with  unusual  trepidation  to  her 
husband's  bombastic  attempts  to  make  light  of  the 
matter,  as  if  it  were  an  ordinary  thing  to  have  such 
conditions  attached  to  a  bargain  for  a  picture ;  and 
when,  in  response  to  an  innocent  inquiry  from  the 
school-teacher,  Floyd  answered  that  the  painting 
was  going  to  Chicago,  she  felt  as  if  something 
choked  her.  She  knew  then  that  her  husband  had 
heard  from  Watson  again,  and  she  did  not  doubt 
in  her  own  mind  that  they  had  reached  an  under 
standing. 

Nevertheless,  so  well  had  she  learned  to  keep 
her  thoughts  and  feelings  to  herself  —  except  on 
those  rare  occasions  when  impulse  got  the  better 
of  her  —  that  when  Floyd  asked  her  after  break 
fast  if  she  would  not  play  model  for  a  while,  he 
was  surprised  himself  at  her  obedient,  almost  gen 
tle,  acquiescence. 

"  Of  course  I  will,  Billy,"  she  answered. 
"  Haven't  I  always  ?  " 

Those  last  words  made  him  glance  suspiciously 
at  her,  imagining  some  meaning  deeper  than  ap 
peared  upon  the  surface  ;  but  her  face  and  her  tone 
were  for  him  impenetrable,  and  the  words  were 


THE  BEOUGHTON  HOUSE.  211 

after  all  natural  enough.  Together  the  artist  and 
his  wife  went  into  the  back  yard  of  the  cottage 
and  looked  around  for  a  suitable  place  for  the 
morning's  work.  A  fountain  easily  brought  to 
mind  the  well-curb,  and  after  squinting  at  this 
two  or  three  times,  Floyd  decided  that  it  would 
do.  It  was  about  the  right  height  for  Mrs.  Floyd 
to  lean  against,  and  an  ancient  brass  kettle  of 
Aunt  Tryphena's,  balanced  on  the  edge  of  the 
curb,  made  a  tolerable  substitute  for  the  water- 
pot,  upon  which  the  Venetian  girl  in  the  sketch 
was  resting  her  hands.  The  artist  arranged  care 
fully  the  drapery  of  his  wife's  skirts,  fastening 
them  high  enough  to  show  her  ankles,  for  he 
wanted  to  paint  the  counterless  slippers  which  the 
Venetian  women  wear  011  the  street.  As  he  pinned 
and  pulled  her  dark  flannel  dress,  and  arranged  a 
red  shawl  upon  her  shoulders,  with  momentary 
glances  at  the  sketch  he  held  in  one  hand,  he 
thought  with  a  smile  of  the  girl  who  had  posed  for 
him  in  Venice.  A  stupid  thing  she  had  been,  un 
used  to  posing,  and  unable  to  comprehend  a  word 
of  his  scanty  Italian  vocabulary,  but  patient  with 
his  pullings  and  twistings,  and  blushing  withal. 
How  prettily  she  had  smiled  when  he  paid  her  the 
fifty  centesimi  an  hour !  She  had  high  cheek 
bones,  and  a  broad,  low  forehead,  with  chestnut 
hair  parting  over  it,  like  some  of  the  old  pictures 
in  the  Accademia.  How  she  had  pattered  off  over 
that  little  arching  bridge  by  his  pension,  when  he 


212  THE  BEOUGHTON  HOUSE. 

had  done  with  her,  her  red  slippers  flapping  and 
scuffling  merrily  along,  and  how  coquettishly  she 
had  peeped  back  at  him  as  she  turned  the  corner 
by  the  canal !  Floyd  shrugged  his  shoulders, 
almost  imperceptibly,  as  he  thought  of  her,  and 
then  stepped  back  and  took  a  critical  survey  of  his 
present  model.  It  was  not  bad,  though,  that  pose 
of  Phenie's  ;  in  fact,  it  was  good,  good  enough. 

"  Bellissimo  t"  he  exclaimed.  "  Non  c'e  male! 
SI  — Si!" 

Mrs.  Floyd  supposed  he  was  talking  German, 
and  made  no  response,  except  to  shift  her  elbow 
slightly  where  the  edge  of  the  curb  began  to  cut 
it.  The  artist  frowned ;  the  movement  destroyed 
a  line  he  wanted  to  keep. 

"  No,"  he  cried  ;  "  that  won't  do."  Then,  more 
considerately,  he  added,  "  Put  your  handkerchief 
under  it,  Phenie." 

She  was  not  so  patient  as  the  other  one,  he 
thought,  setting  up  his  easel  and  stool  under 
the  shadow  of  the  grape-vine  that  hung  over  the 
back  porch.  The  other  one  !  His  smile  and  his 
good-humor  came  back  to  him.  What  was  the 
use  of  thinking  of  that  time  as  of  something  irre 
trievably  past  for  him,  as  he  had  been  in  the  habit 
of  doing  ?  Past  ?  Venice  was  there,  never  fear  ; 
and  his  red-slippered  model,  or  plenty  more  like 
her.  Past?  The  Hamburg  steamer,  sailing  that 
day  from  New  York,  would  make  the  passage,  say, 
in  nine  days.  He  could  take  the  train  for  Berlin, 


THE  BROUGHTOS   HOUSE.  213 

catch  the  night  express  southward,  and  be  in 
Munich  the  next  afternoon.  There  he  would  pick 
up  two  or  three  of  the  boys,  and  persuade  them  to 
make  a  party  for  Venice  ;  and  then  for  the  morn 
ing  train  that  he  had  taken  before,  up  through  the 
Tyrol,  and  over  the  Brenner  pass,  and  down  the 
long  slopes  to  Verona ;  thence  eastward,  till  in.  the 
evening  the  train  would  creep  out  over  the  marshy 
plains,  and  the  salt  air  of  the  lagoons  would  blow 
in  at  the  car-windows ;  then  would  come  the  long, 
white  bridge,  with  the  Adriatic  lapping  against  its 
piers ;  and  finally,  they  would  hurry  out  of  the 
bustling  little  station  on  to  the  black  stairs,  where 
the  shouting  gondoliers  were  waiting  for  them: 
they  would  jump  in,  and  glide  off  down  the  Grand 
Canal  in  the  darkness.  Venice  !  It  was  only  two 
weeks  away  from  Broughton. 

"  Have  you  begun  yet,  Billy  ?  "  interrupted  Mrs. 
Floyd. 

"No,"  ejaculated  Floyd,  coming  back  suddenly 
to  New  England. 

"  Will  you  get  my  hat  ?  The  sun  is  pretty  hot 
here.  That  is,  if  it  won't  make  any  difference  for 
the  beginning." 

He  brought  her  the  hat,  in  momentary  shame  at 
his  thoughtlessness.  He  had  a  cool  seat  in  the 
shade  himself.  But  as  soon  as  his  canvas  was 
ready,  and  the  picture  fairly  under  way,  he  began 
again  to  plan  out,  in  a  kind  of  undertow  of  thought, 
the  details  of  a  trip  to  Europe,  perhaps  of  the  par- 


214  THE  BEOUGIITON  HOUSE. 

ticular  trip  that  liis  morning's  work  was  making 
possible  for  him,  and  his  wife's  comfort  or  discom 
fort  in  her  posture  by  the  well-curb  went  entirely 
out  of  his  mind.  It  seemed  good  to  him  to  be  at 
work  again  upon  something  definite,  and  to  know 
now  what  he  could  count  on. 

The  last  two  weeks  had  been,  for  the  most  part, 
very  uncomfortable  ones  for  the  artist.  Waiting, 
without  action,  is  a  difficult  matter  for  the  best  of 
men  under  the  best  of  circumstances  ;  so  much  the 
more  was  it  hard  for  Floyd,  hesitating  before  a 
step  that  was  to  consummate  his  selfishness.  The 
weather,  too,  had  been  cold  and  rainy,  except  on 
two  or  three  days,  and  Floyd  was  dependent  on 
fine  weather  for  a  good  share  of  his  happiness. 
Just  now,  of  all  times,  to  be  shut  up  in  doors  with 
Tryphena,  and  to  feel  the  mute  reproach  of  her 
presence,  while  each  of  them  was  guessing  what 
was  covered  beneath  the  commonplace  of  the 
other's  scanty  talk,  was  doubly  trying.  He  had 
spent  as  much  time  as  possible  at  the  Broughton 
House,  or  in  Meyer's  shop,  for  ten  days  past,  espe- 
pecially  since  that  unfortunate  Monday  morning 
when  he  had  returned  from  the  Center  with  a 
headache,  and  Tryphena  had  said  nothing  to  him 
at  all ;  but  had  only  looked  at  him,  and  made  him 
feel  suddenly  afraid  of  her. 

Even  the  whist,  upon  which  he  had  relied  for 
passing  a  good  many  hours  without  the  necessity 
of  saying  anything,  and  yet  with  the  semblance  of 


THE  BEOUGHTON  HOUSE.  215 

sociability,  seemed  to  be  getting  into  disfavor  of 
late,  and  it  grew  difficult  to  gather  the  quartette. 
Son  derby,  in  particular,  had  been  growing  unman 
ageable  for  a  week  past ;  had  refused  to  play  more 
than  once,  alleging  that  there  was  important  work 
for  him  to  do  at  the  laboratory,  and  exhibiting 
altogether  a  sulky  and  grumpy  state  of  temper. 
Collins,  however,  as  if  to  make  up  for  the  moodi- 
ness  of  his  table  companion,  had  shown  an  in 
creasing  friendliness.  He  and  Floyd  had  loafed  a 
good  deal  together,  and  once  Collins  had  insisted 
on  taking  Mrs.  Floyd  to  drive  in  the  best  buggy 
that  the  hotel  stable  afforded. 

"  Billy,"  interposed  Tryphena  again,  "  this  ket 
tle  is  slipping  out  from  under  my  arm.  If  you  don't 
want  to  have  me  move,  hadn't  you  better  fix  it?" 

Floyd  put  down  his  brush  and  maul-stick,  and 
balanced  the  kettle  again,  hardly  noticing  how  hot 
it  had  become  already  in  the  direct  glare  of  the  sun. 
He  stepped  back  to  the  easel  and  eyed  Mrs.  Floyd 
a  second  or  two,  and  then  went  up  to  her  and 
took  off  her  hat. 

"  I  want  to  get  the  head  and  shoulders  —  just 
the  outline  —  now,"  he  said.  "No,  Phenie,  don't 
look  so  far  to  the  right.  Just  about  at  those  plum- 
trees.  No,  a  little  higher !  Try  looking  off  at  the 
tops  of  those  hemlocks  above  the  Hollow :  —  raise 
your  eyes  a  little  —  that's  it !  " 

It  was  just  the  attitude  he  wanted  for  his  indo 
lent  Venetian  girl,  waiting  at  the  fountain. 


216  THE  BEOUGIITON  HOUSE. 

"  Can  you  keep  it  so,  Pheiiie  ?  "  he  cried. 

"  Oh,  yes,  Billy  !  "  she  answered,  patiently. 
'He  made  sure  of  the  outline  with  as  rapid 
strokes  as  possible,  but  it  was  a  matter  that  re 
quired  careful  handling,  and  a  full  half-hour  had 
slipped  by  before  she  could  put  on  her  broad- 
brimmed  straw  hat  again.  She  had  grown  faint 
and  dizzy.  Floyd,  in  the  shadow  of  the  grape- 
trellis,  and  well  satisfied  with  the  beginning  he 
had  made,  painted  on  and  on.  He  was  conscious 
that  every  touch  of  the  brush  was  liberating  him 
from  the  bondage  he  was  under,  bringing  him  just 
so  much  nearer  the  end.  He  watched  the  slender 
figure  leaning  against  the  well-curb,  now  consid 
ering  her  artistically,  as  his  model,  and  now 
practically,  as  Mrs.  William  J.  Floyd.  As  he 
thought  of  her  under  these  two  aspects,  a  sardonic 
gleam  of  amusement  passed  slowly  over  his  face. 

Floyd  was  not  particularly  quick,  mentally,  but 
the  humor  of  the  situation  grew  more  and  more 
apparent.  Here  was  his  wife,  quietly  posing  for 
him,  in  order  that  he  might  earn  money  enough  to 
leave  the  country  and  abandon  her!  There  was 
something  grotesque  about  it  which  appealed  to 
Floyd's  fancy ;  a  droll  foreign  flavor,  like  that  of 
some  operetta  or  light  comedy,  or  like  some  of  the 
atelier  stories  he  had  heard.  It  seemed  comical 
that  it  should  all  happen  to  him,  that  he  should 
be  the  hero  of  it.  Then,  by  a  singular  logic, 
he  began  to  persuade  himself  that  Tryphena  was 


THE  BEOUGHTOy  IIOUSE.  217 

playing  her  cards  with  a  very  fine  hand,  that  she 
understood  thoroughly  the  significance  of  Wat 
son's  ordering  this  picture,  and  posed  for  him 
because  she  wanted  to  hasten  his  going.  Phenie 
must  know  as  well  as  he  that  they  were  not  made 
for  each  other ;  that  the  sooner  the  sorry  imperson 
ation  of  their  r61es  was  over,  the  better  for  them 
both.  Phenie  could  get  along  perfectly  well 
without  him ;  she  owned  the  cottage,  and  she 
could  remain  in  Broughton  and  teach  school,  or 
do  something  of  the  sort.  Yes,  it  was  clear  she 
wanted  to  have  him  go,  or  she  would  not  thus 
clear  the  path  for  his  departure.  It  was  no  won 
der  she  was  willing  to  pose  for  him,  and  help  the 
picture  along  !  She  was  a  deep  one  !  Again  there 
came  over  the  artist  the  old  feeling  that  this  slight, 
imperturbable  country  girl  was  stronger  than  he, 
and  more  clear-sighted;  that  she  could  look 
straight  through  his  subterfuges  and  excuses ; 
could  guess  at  his  half-formed  wishes,  and  shape 
her  own  plans  accordingly ;  that  her  silent  acqui 
escence  was  only  a  barricade  behind  which  she 
mined  incessantly,  and  against  which  he  was  ever 
to  be  baffled.  But  what  of  that  ?  What  difference 
did  it  make  ?  A  fortnight  more,  and  it  would  all 
be  over. 

At  no  time  during  the  two  weeks  now  past  had 
Floyd  distinctly  stated  to  himself  that  he  was 
going  away.  He  had  never  deliberately  formulated 
the  question  until  that  bright  morning  out  by 


218  THE  BEOUGIITON  HOUSE. 

the  old  mill,  and  then  he  had  set  it  aside, 
unanswered.  But  in  this  interval  of  waiting, 
his  will  had  taken  to  itself  an  unconscious 
strength ;  and  now,  when  he  came  to  examine  the 
state  of  his  own  mind,  he  found  that  leaving  was 
no  longer  a  defiant  desire,  but  a  fixed  fact,  grown 
fixed  while  he  had  eaten  and  slept  and  idled,  and 
now  strengthened  by  the  very  weight  of  his  moral 
inertia.  To  decide  to  remain  in  America  now 
would  have  been  a  change  of  mind  for  him,  though 
he  was  entirely  unable  to  say  when  he  had  made 
up  his  mind  to  go. 

And  Mrs.  Floyd,  standing  there  by  the  worm- 
eaten  well-curb,  on  the  old  stones  which  her  own 
childish  feet  had  helped  to  wear  hollow,  what  was 
she  thinking  about  ? 

There  was  time  for  her  to  think  about  many 
things,  in  that  long  forenoon.  Gracefully  enough 
she  leaned  there,  with  her  skirts  pinned  back  from 
her  slender  ankles,  improvised  Venetian  slippers 
on  her  feet,  a  gaudy  red  shawl  draped  around  her 
waist  as  if  it  had  slipped  down  from  her  shoulders, 
her  thin  fingers  clasped  over  the  rim  of  the  brass 
kettle,  which  shone  in  the  sun  till  it  seemed  as 
true  a  gold  as  the  wedding  ring  upon  her  hand. 
Her  face  was  turned  away  from  the  painter,  but 
by  the  curves  of  the  throat,  the  line  of  the  uplifted 
chin,  and  the  merest  glimpse  of  her  profile,  with 
the  long  eyelashes  and  the  expectant  brow,  one 
could  know  that  she  was  waiting  for  something. 


THE  BEOUGIITON  HOUSE.  219 

For  what  ?  If  in  Venice,  for  a  window  to  open 
in  the  palace  opposite,  for  her  lover  to  come 
sauntering  over  the  bridge,  for  her  noonday  dream 
to  dream  itself  out,  ere  she  filled  her  water-bucket 
and  went  home.  But  it  was  not  in  Venice,  it  was 
only  in  Broughton ;  and  Tryphena  Floyd's  eyes 
were  apparently  fixed  on  the  tops  of  Samuel  Park 
inson's  plum-trees,  or  perhaps  on  the  black  boughs 
of  the  hemlocks  over  the  Hollow,  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  away.  The  wind  might  brush  through  the 
plum-trees  again,  and  shake  another  greengage  to 
the  ground ;  possibly  a  crow  might  flap  remi- 
niscently  around  its  old  nest  in  the  hemlocks ;  but 
that  was  all  which  could  happen,  if  one  leaned 
there  on  the  well-curb  and  watched  a  whole  summer 
long.  Was  Mrs.  Floyd  really  waiting  for  anything? 

Yes.  One  day  with  fatalistic  acquiescence,  the 
next  with  a  passion  of  revolt,  now  with  dumb 
moods  when  her  mind  seemed  not  to  work  at  all, 
and  now  with  hours  of  fantastic  gaiety,  but  above 
all  with  that  endurance  which  is  a  part  of  an 
honest  woman's  heritage,  Mrs.  Floyd  was  waiting 
for  the  end  of  the  month.  A  more  solitary  person, 
for  one  who  must  face  the  great  crisis  of  a  life,  it 
would  have  been  difficult  to  find.  She  had  rightly 
said  to  Sonderby,  in  a  moment  when  the  barriers 
she  had  set  between  herself  and  others  were  for 
the  moment  fallen,  that  no  one  could  help  her. 
For  what  help  was  there  ?  She  had  no  hold  upon 
her  husband ;  that  was  the  bare  but  the  sufficient 


220  THE  13  HOUGH  TON   HOUSE. 

fact.  She  had  been  slowly  suspecting  it  for  a  long 
time,  and  in  the  last  few  days  she  had  felt  sure  of  it. 
It  was  "  their  business  "  solely,  as  she  had  said, 
and  there  was  help  neither  in  him  nor  in  herself. 
She  had  no  friends  to  whom  she  could  go  for  advice, 
except,  perhaps,  Aunt  Tryphosa,  and  she  had  a 
conviction  that  Aunt  Tryphosa  would  not  under 
stand. 

Broughton  folks  she  knew  well  enough  out 
wardly,  as  they  knew  her,  but  the  experience  of 
the  past  three  years  seemed  to  set  an  infinite  dis 
tance  between  her  and  these  kindly  inquisitive 
people  with  whom  she  had  been  acquainted  from 
her  childhood.  She  recognized  the  uselessness  of 
asking  counsel  from  any  of  them,  even  if  her  pride 
had  allowed  her  to  do  so.  It  was  her  own  affair. 
If  she  had  made  a  long  mistake,  so  much  the  worse 
for  her.  Her  life  had  been  aimless  and  empty 
enough,  till  she  began  to  love  Billy  Floyd ;  and  he, 
or  else  her  love  for  him,  had  for  a  while  filled  it 
sufficiently.  Now  her  husband  seem  to  shrink,  to 
shrivel  while  she  watched  him  even,  and  life 
seemed  to  expand  with  each  day,  to  recede  from 
her  poor  pitiful  experience,  and  leave  it  dwindling 
there ;  but  alas !  life,  as  it  widened  round  her, 
was  itself  a  void.  Strange  moods  of  apathy  grew 
more  frequent  with  her,  as  day  after  day  crept  by 
and  brought  no  exterior  change.  She  came  to  think 
sometimes  that  it  made  no  difference  whether 
her  husband  went  or  stayed :  if  he  sailed  for  Mu- 


THE  BEOUGUTON  HOUSE.  221 

nich  when  the  month  was  up,  or  if  he  remained, 
and  they  two  lived  together  till  their  hair  grew 
white  and  their  steps  tottering,  it  would  be  the 
same;  in  either  event  all  was  over  between  them: 
their  experiment  was  already  finished. 

Hotly  did  the  sun  pour  down  upon  the  back 
yard  of  the  cottage,  through  that  midsummer 
morning,  and  in  spite  of  Mrs.  Floyd's  broad- 
brimmed  hat,  a  faintness  came  over  her  at  inter 
vals.  Posing  was  wearisome  work,  too,  and  for 
months  she  had  had  no  practice  in  it.  But  ex 
hausted  as  she  w^as,  it  was  scarcely  an  unwelcome 
way  of  spending  her  morning.  There  was  nothing 
for  her  to  say,  nothing  for  her  to  do,  except  to 
keep  in  position,  and  yet  she  had  a  consciousness 
that  she  was  fulfilling  her  obligations  to  the  end ; 
that  she  was  aiding  her  husband,  obediently,  un- 
questioningly,  as  she  had  ever  tried  to  do.  That 
he  was  coolly  planning  to  forsake  her  made  no  dif 
ference  in  her  duty,  —  as  Mrs.  Floyd  with  her 
New  England  conscientiousness  conceived  her 
duty,  —  and  the  self-abnegation,  for  Floyd's  un 
worthy  sake,  brought  her  a  strange,  sad  pleasure. 
It  was  after  eleven  when  the  artist  finally  declared 
that  she  had  done  enough,  took  the  kettle  from 
her  creased  fingers,  and  unfastened  the  safety-pins 
which  he  had  used  in  draping  her  skirts.  Two  or 
three  times  in  the  morning  he  had  advised  her  to 
rest  a  little,  but  she  had  refused.  Now  as  she 
straightened  herself,  and  the  blood  coursed  freely 


222  THE  BROUGIITON  HOUSE. 

through  her  cramped  limbs  again,  a  sudden  dizzi 
ness  nearly  made  her  fall.  He  saw  it  and  put  his 
arm  around  her,  and  then  as  she  steadied  herself, 
he  kissed  her,  not  without  a  certain  embarrass 
ment,  upon  the  temple.  She  did  not  look  up  at 
him;  if  she  had,  he  would  have  seen  the  quick 
tears  well  up  from  her  eyes.  She  had  been  so 
happy  once,  when  he  had  kissed  her. 

"  You've  done  enough  for  all  day,  Phenie,"  he 
repeated,  in  good  spirits  at  the  progress  made,  and 
perhaps  thinking  more  of  that  than  of  her.  "  I'll 
work  at  the  background  this  afternoon." 

After  dinner,  therefore,  there  being  no  whist 
that  day,  she  took  from  the  buttery  a  six -quart 
pail,  and  went  off  after  red  raspberries,  leaving  her 
husband  painting  away  by  himself,  absorbedly. 
When  she  came  back  at  supper-time,  carrying 
slowly  her  full  pail  across  the  garden,  which  she 
had  reached  from  a  footpath  that  led  out  toward 
the  high  pasture  around  the  Hollow,  Floyd  had 
stopped  work.  He  had  placed  his  easel  in  the 
kitchen,  though,  and  she  stood  before  it  a  minute 
or  two,  wondering,  after  all,  at  the  great  gift  that 
Billy  had.  Perhaps  there  was  a  future  before  him 
yet  —  the  future  of  which  they  both  had  dreamed, 
in  those  happy  months  after  they  were  married. 
It  might  come  yet,  for  him,  —  but  for  her  ? 

She  turned  away,  and  lifted  her  pail  of  berries 
again,  wearily.  What  could  she  do  with  them,  now 
she  had  them  ?  She  had  not  thought  any  further 


THE  BROUGHTON  HOUSE.  223 

than  the  amusement  of  picking  them,  and  of  play 
ing  she  AY  as  a  child  once  more.  She  did  not  want 
them,  after  all.  There  were  plenty  of  berries  in 
the  kitchen  of  the  hotel,  and  there  was  no  use 
in  giving  them  to  Evans.  She  did  not  like  the 
Welshman,  anyway.  Finally,  she  carried  them 
across  the  street  to  Bill  Trumbuirs  daughter. 

"  Perhaps  your  father  would  like  to  eat  some 
berries,"  she  said,  timidly.  "  The  first  time  I  ever 
went  red-raspberry  ing,  he  went  with  me.  Ask  him 
if  he  remembers  it,  will  you,  Mirandy  ?  " 

She  came  back  to  the  cottage  with  her  empty 
pail,  in  time  to  give  a  shy  bow  to  Mr.  Ellerton, 
who  had  just  left  Collins  at  the  corner  of  the 
Broughton  House.  Then  she  washed  the  rasp 
berry  stains  from  her  fingers,  brushed  her  dark 
hair  smooth,  and  tying  round  her  throat  a  bit  of 
lavender  ribbon  she  had  worn  in  her  girlhood,  went 
over  to  supper. 

The  next  morning  she  posed  again,  and  the  next, 
and  the  day  after.  Strange  hours  they  were  for 
her;  in  which  110  new  ideas  came  to  her,  and 
scarcely  any  new  impressions,  but  a  flood  of  old 
memories.  Old  things  lay  all  about  her  there  — 
the  back  yard  with  its  thick,  slippery  grass  ;  the 
flower-garden,  whose  yellow  lilies,  hollyhocks,  and 
sunflowers  were  going  to  seed  unheeded ;  the  fruit 
orchard,  where  the  Bough  apples  were  rotting  on 
the  ground ;  the  old  well  itself,  whose  mossy  stones 
once  seemed  to  her  to  stretch  down  so  endlessly 


224  THE  BROUGHTON  HOUSE. 

deep,  and  whose  water  lay  there  cool  and  dark,  as 
she  gazed  down  into  it  now,  in  the  long  hours  of 
posing.  She  wondered  how  it  could  keep  so  dark 
and  cool,  being  only  a  few  feet  from  the  blazing 
sunshine.  Peace  in  the  midst  of  trouble  Mrs. 
Floyd  did  not  understand ;  she  understood  only 
how  to  be  calm. 

It  happened  once  or  twice  that  Collins  sauntered 
over  to  the  cottage  in  the  morning,  and  sat  down 
beside  the  artist  to  watch  him  at  his  work.  The 
manufacturer  usually  smoked  in  silence,  with  an 
occasional  shrewd  observation  to  Floyd  about  the 
picture.  Tryphena  did  not  mind  his  being  there, 
and  scarcely  thought  of  him,  except  in  the  resting- 
time,  when  she  occasionally  seated  herself  by  him 
on  the  grass,  under  the  trellis,  and  was  rather  glad 
that  some  one  was  there  to  talk  to.  But  as  soon 
as  she  was  in  position  again,  looking  away  from 
the  men,  out  over  the  garden  idly,  he  went  out  of 
her  mind,  being  a  part  of  that  present  which  seemed 
for  the  time  like  a  blank  to  her,  in  comparison  with 
all  the  figures  and  fancies  of  the  past. 

One  thing  only,  in  those  days  given  to  the  Vene 
tian  girl,  occurred  to  bring  the  quartette  together, 
except  at  meal  times.  That  was  a  drive,  upon  the 
manner  of  which  Collins  had  set  his  heart.  An 
ancient  carryall  of  Bill  Trumbull's,  which  had 
hitherto,  during  Evans's  proprietorship,  stood  un 
used  in  the  hotel  stable,  had  just  been  repaired,  in 
accordance  with  Collins's  advice.  The  top  had  been 


THE  BEOUGHTON  HOUSE.  225 

removed,  side-bar  springs  substituted  for  the  origi 
nal  ones,  and  with  new  cushions  and  liberal  coats 
of  varnish,  the  vehicle  assumed  a  tolerable  degree 
of  respectability,  despite  its  somewhat  anomalous 
character.  It  would  hold  four  very  comfortably, 
and  a  lank  bay  mare,  belonging  to  Evans,  was  war 
ranted  of  sufficient  strength  to  pull  the  quartette 
over  the  Broughton  hills  as  fast  as  they  wished  to 
travel. 

Collins  had  a  good  deal  of  difficulty  in  arrang 
ing  the  time  for  the  excursion,  for  both  Floyd 
and  Sonderby  were  someAvhat  obstinately  bent 
on  following  their  own  concerns.  But  the  manu 
facturer  was  accustomed  to  have  his  own  way, 
and  one  afternoon,  about  four  o'clock,  they  all 
started  off  for  a  drive  around  the  Canuck  Cor 
ner  road.  Collins  held  the  reins,  and  Floyd,  sit 
ting  beside  him,  flourished  the  whip.  .  It  was  a 
perfect  afternoon,  and  they  rattled  along  gaily 
enough,  up  hill  and  down,  for  an  hour  or  more. 
Then,  not  meaning  to  be  late  for  supper,  Floyd, 
who  was  driving  by  this  time,  turned  the  mare 
into  an  old  road  that  led  back  to  the  village  by  a 
shorter  way.  The  road  had  been  badly  washed 
out  by  successive  spring  rains  since  it  had  been 
last  repaired,  and  the  artist  was  as  ignorant  a 
driver  as  ever  grasped  the  lines.  Collins  had  ad 
monished  him  once  or  twice.  As  they  plunged 
down  a  little  hill  and  the  carryall  struck  sharply 
against  the  water-ridge  at  the  foot  of  it,  pitching 


226  THE  BROUGHTON  HOUSE. 

them  all  forward  in  their  seats  amid  a  general  ex 
plosion  of  laughter,  the  half-worn  hold-backs  broke. 
The  carryall  was  thrown  against  the  mare's  hind 
quarters,  but  she  stopped,  though  dancing  in  some 
alarm.  Floyd  did  not  understand  what  had  hap 
pened,  and,  gathering  the  ends  of  the  lines  in  his 
right  hand,  struck  her  across  the  loins.  Then  the 
mare  flung  her  bony  head  straight  out,  with  the  bit 
in  her  teeth,  and  ran.  Floyd,  thoroughly  scared, 
pulled  impatiently  at  the  reins  :  on  seeing  that  the 
mare  only  ran  the  faster,  he  loosened  them  nervously 
and  screamed,  "  Help  !  "  Collins  grabbed  the  lines 
and  gave  them  a  savage  jerk,  which  brought  the 
mare's  head  into  the  air  for  an  instant,  but  for 
an  instant  only ;  he  could  not  hold  it,  and  she 
shook  her  neck  and  got  it  straight  out  before  her 
again,  and  blindly  galloped  on.  Collins,  tugging 
in  vain,  half  turned  in  his  seat  and  shot  a  glance 
at  Sonderby.  The  ex-oarsman  rose  upright,  lock 
ing  his  knees  into  the  back  of  the  front  seat,  and, 
leaning  far  forward,  wrapped  the  lines  around  his 
hands;  then,  drawing  a  long  breath  through  his 
clenched  teeth,  he  began  to  straighten,  with  a  slow 
sidewise  swaying  that  threw  his  weight  now  on 
one  line  and  now  on  the  other.  Slow,  terribly 
slow  it  seemed,  for  there  was  no  chance  for  any 
thing  but  pure  muscle,  man  against  horse.  Slow, 
but  steady,  first  one  side,  then  the  other.  Slow, 
for  John  Sonderby's  arms  were  not  so  big  as  they 
once  were,  though  his  legs  and  back  and  loins  were 


THE  BROUGHTOy   HOUSE.  227 

like  iron.  Oh,  so  slow,  with  Canuck  Hill  sloping 
down  ahead  of  them  through  the  trees ! 

Yet,  before  they  reach  it,  the  mare  tires  under 
the  cruel  weight  upon  her  jaw;  lower  sinks  her 
stiffened  tail ;  her  ears  are  twitching,  and  —  ha  ! 
up  comes  her  head,  with  the  foam  flying  from  her 
lips ;  up  and  back  over  her  trembling  shoulders  is 
it  pulled  now,  as  John  Sonderby  straightens  him 
self  at  last,  the  quick  breath  hissing  through  his 
teeth,  a  victorious  blue  light  in  his  eyes,  the  brown 
hair  blown  back  from  his  bare  temples,  where  the 
blue  veins  are  corded. 

Floyd  jumped,  as  soon  as  the  carryall  slowed  up. 
Collins  followed  him,  a  minute  later,  but  only  to 
get  the  mare  by  the  head.  When  she  was  quieted, 
Sonderby  dropped  the  reins,  and  got  out,  lifting 
Mrs.  Floyd  after  him.  Nobody  said  anything  for 
a  minute  or  two.  The  men  busied  themselves 
with  the  harness.  Finally  Collins  muttered,  as  he 
drew  out  his  penknife  to  cut  a  new  hole  in  the 
broken  strap: 

%;  It  was  a  close  call,  Sonderby." 

That  was  all  that  was  said.  Floyd  came  up 
rather  shamefacedly,  and  they  got  in,  and  walked 
the  mare  home.  Tryphena  did  not  speak.  She 
had  not  felt  so  much  frightened  as  she  had  always 
thought  she  would  be,  if  run  away  with. 

But  as  they  turned  into  the  village  street,  down 
at  the  academy  end,  Mrs.  Floyd  made  one  of  those 
impulsive  movements  which  she  seemed  unable  to 


228  THE  BROUGHTON   HOUSE. 

control.  Whether  in  disgust  at  her  husband's 
cowardice,  or  in  admiration  of  the  courage  and 
strength  of  the  man  beside  her,  but  at  any  rate, 
with  a  fierce  swiftness,  like  the  maternal  caress  of 
some  animal,  and  yet  with  a  shyness  as  of  a  girl, 
she  laid  her  hand  for  an  instant  on  Sonderby7s 
arm. 


XL 

ONE  other  thing  distinguished  that  week,  the 
last  in  July,  from  the  ones  which  had  preceded  it. 
Collins  seemed  to  be  knitting  a  close  intimacy  with 
Floyd.  'As  the  picture  of  the  Venetian  girl  grew 
upon  the  canvas,  the  longer  and  more  frequent  be 
came  the  manufacturer's  visits  to  the  back  yard  of 
the  cottage.  In  the  late  afternoon,  when  Floyd 
had  finished  work  for  the  day,  or  in  the  evening, 
the  two  men  sat  in  Collins's  room,  and  played 
euchre.  Floyd,  who  was  a  constant  talker  when 
in  good-humor,  found  Collins  a  more  attentive 
and  respectful  listener  to  his  experiences  and  theo 
ries  than  had  formerly  been  the  case.  As  John 
Sonderby  had  noticed  on  the  first  day  Floyd  dined 
at  the  Broughton  House,  Collins  had  once  taken 
scanty  pains  to  conceal  his  tolerant  contempt  for 
the  artist,  But  nowadays  he  cultivated  Floyd 
assiduously,  much  to  the  elevation  of  the  latter's 
opinion  of  himself. 

The  prosecution  of  this  somewhat  peculiar  friend 
ship  was  furthered  by  the  fact  that,  as  July  came 
to  a  close,  the  quartette  met  less  and  less  often  for 
the  whist  and  singing  and  random  talk,  which 
had  filled  up  so  much  of  the  time  earlier  in  the 

229 


280  THE  BEOUGHTON  HOUSE. 

month.  The  responsibility  for  this  change  was 
generally  flung  upon  Sonderby,  who  seemed  to  be 
more  moody  every  day  and  more  perverse  in  the 
disposition  of  his  leisure.  Taciturn  always,  his 
increasing  silence  at  the  table  grew  sometimes 
uncomfortable  for  the  others;  and  Collins,  who 
had  from  the  first  liked  the  fellow,  did  not  hesitate 
to  quiz  him  about  the  cause  of  his  "  blueness," 
watching  him  the  while  with  an  observant  eye. 
Sonderby  pretended  to  have  at  the  laboratory  of 
the  academy  some  important  work  which  demanded 
all  his  time  ;  and  he  explained  one  day  to  Collins, 
incidentally,  that  he  Avas  fitting  himself  for  his 
duties  with  the  A.  S.  &  F.  Company.  But  it 
happened  repeatedly,  especially  in  the  evening, 
when  he  went  toward  the  academy,  alleging  that 
he  had  no  time  to  spare,  that  he  really  did  not  go 
to  the  laboratory  at  all,  but  tramped  off  alone  in 
the  dusk,  over  the  country  roads,  going  at  the  top 
of  his  speed  and  tiring  himself.  Two  days  he  spent 
in  the  hayfield  of  Bill  Trumbull's  son-in-law,  offer 
ing  his  services  with  the  explanation  that  he  needed 
exercise,  and  that  it  would  be  an  obligation  to  him 
if  he  were  allowed  to  help  the  farm  hands  out  in  their 
late  haying ;  and  both  nights  he  looked  so  white 
and  tired  at  supper,  that  Mrs.  Floyd  timidly  or 
dered  the  Irish  waitress  to  bring  him  some  tea,  and 
Mr.  Collins  wanted  to  insist,  afterward,  on  his 
taking  a  swallow  of  whiskey,  which  the  school 
teacher  gratefully  declined. 


THE  BROUGHTON  HOUSE.  231 

Floyd's  new  enthusiasm  for  work,  too,  did  some 
thing  to  assist  in  the  apparent  disintegration  of  the 
quartette.  The  increasing  number  of  strangers 
at  the  Broughton  House  made  the  four  regular 
boarders  less  observed,  and  the  red  rocking-chairs 
along  the  piazza  no  longer  made  upon  them  any 
mute  claim  for  occupancy.  It  made  no  particular 
difference,  even  to  Evans,  whether  they  stayed 
after  dinner  to  play  whist,  or  were  sitting  on  the 
piazza  when  the  afternoon  stage  lumbered  in. 
Guests  in  plenty  there  were  by  this  time  to  occupy 
all  of  the  chairs,  and  to  give  an  unwonted  appear 
ance  of  animation  to  the  hotel.  It  certainly  seemed 
as  if  the  Welshman's  luck  had  turned  for  good, 
and  prosperity  agreed  with  him.  He  no  longer 
slid  anxiously  around  the  office  and  dining-room, 
watching  pertinaciously  the  conversation  of  his 
boarders ;  but  instead,  stepped  smartly  through 
the  hall  or  along  the  piazza,  as  if  business  pressed 
him  hard,  carrying  his  cunning,  narrow  head  erect, 
while  his  bead  eyes  glistened  with  pleasure.  He 
bought  a  new  suit  of  clothes,  paid  off  all  his  help, 
and  began  to  settle  with  the  farmers  of  the  neigh 
borhood  for  the  butter,  eggs,  and  other  produce 
delivered  during  the  preceding  summer. 

To  be  sure,  the  majority  of  the  Broughton 
House  guests  did  not  remain  many  days,  but  new 
ones  came  infallibly  to  take  their  places,  and  to 
increase  the  Welshman's  triumph.  Evans  was 
now  indifferent  whether  the  quartette  remained 


232  THE  BROUGHTON  HOUSE. 

with  him  ;  he  begrudged  Sonderby  his  second-floor 
front  room,  for  which  the  school-teacher  paid  but 
half  what  it  would  bring  now;  he  was  anxious  to 
keep  on  the  right  side  of  Collins,  for  various  rea 
sons  ;  but  as  for  the  Floyds,  he  had  taken  them 
below  cost  originally,  and  Floyd  was  an  enormous 
eater,  while  Mrs.  Floyd  was  to  him  an  uncongenial 
person.  Now  that  the  season  was  an  assured  suc 
cess,  he  made  no  longer  any  particular  effort  to 
please  the  patrons  with  whom  his  prosperity  had 
begun.  His  manner  toward  Trunibull  grew  stead 
ily  in  insolence ;  and  though  he  did  not  as  yet  dare 
to  turn  him  out  of  the  office,  and  was  forced  to 
satisfy  himself  by  planning  how  he  would  do  it 
when  the  time  ever  came,  he  succeeded  in  annoy 
ing  his  predecessor  by  outspoken  criticisms  of  Bill's 
favorite  newspaper,  the  Springfield  Republican, 
and  by  removing  the  cushioned  chair  from  the 
office,  occasionally,  when  Bill  was  coming  over  for 
a  tranquil  smoke. 

To  Bill  Trumbull,  the  fact  that  the  quartette 
had  for  ten  days  or  more  fallen  increasingly  into 
the  habit  of  separating  soon  after  meal  times, 
brought  a  good  deal  of  mild  disappointment.  He 
liked  to  see  the  young  folks  together,  enjoying 
themselves.  Toward  Tryphena  he  felt  almost  a 
fatherly  affection,  and  indeed  he  was  the  nearest 
approach  to  a  father  she  had  ever  known ;  for 
Abner  Morton  had  gone  to  the  war  with  Bill's 


THE  BEOUGHTON   HOUSE.  233 

brother,  and  the  hitter's  dinted  sword  was  all  that 
had  ever  come  back  of  either  of  them. 

Bill  had  alwa}Ts  felt  a  little  uncertainty  about 
Tryphena's  husband ;  for  however  shiftless  Trum- 
bull  might  be,  he  shared  in  the  Xew  England 
suspicion  of  any  one  who  got  his  living  in  irreg 
ular  ways,  ways  not  sanctified  by  orthodox  Xew 
England  traditions.  He  admitted,  in  confidential 
moments  when  the  artist  was  the  subject  of  dis 
cussion,  that  he  couldn't  "  understand  the  critter." 
But  with  Collins  and  Sonderby,  Bill's  relations 
had  been  so  genial  that  the  diminution  of  the 
hours  of  intercourse  with  them  made  him  feel 
rather  lonesome.  He  disliked  to  have  Collins  and 
Floyd  sit  upstairs  so  much  of  late ;  if  it  was 
nothing  but  a  game  of  cards  and  a  glass  of  cider 
they  wanted,  there  was  no  necessity  of  so  much 
secrecy  about  it  —  although  in  the  days  of  i;  Trurn- 
bull's,"  or  rather  of  "Mis'  TrumbulL"  not  even 
the  glass  of  cider  could  have  been  obtained  at  the 
hotel. 

Perhaps  more  than  all  else,  Bill  missed  the 
singing  in  the  parlor.  Without  knowing  anything 
more  about  music  than  the  singing-schools  of  his 
boyhood  had  taught  him,  he  grew  constantly  in 
fondness  for  it,  as  his  contemplative  life  lengthened, 
and  since  the  death  of  Mrs.  Trumbull  he  was  con 
scious  of  a  mournful  and  quite  indefinable  pleasure 
in  listening  to  certain  tunes,  especially  some  of 
those  contained  in  Moody  and  Sankey's  hymn- 


234  THE  BEOUGHTON  UOUSK. 

books.  But  the  singing  had  grown  less  frequent, 
too,  together  with  the  whist,  and  Bill's  ludicrous 
hints  about  the  danger  of  the  melodeon  getting 
out  of  tune  if  it  were  not  used,  had  apparently 
failed  to  have  any  effect  upon  Collins.  It  was 
greatly  to  the  secret  satisfaction  of  Bill  Trumbull, 
therefore,  that  on  that  Friday  evening  when  they 
returned  from  their  drive  around  by  Canuck 
Corner,  the  young  people  did  not  seem  inclined  to 
separate  after  supper.  They  had  come  back  late, 
and  had  been  the  sole  occupants  of  the  dining- 
room;  for  Broughton  air  gave  strangers  a  good 
appetite,  and  the  guests  of  the  hotel  were  very 
prompt  at  their  meals.  The  supper  was  at  first  a 
silent  one,  like  the  latter  part  of  the  drive ;  but 
gradually,  as  they  recovered  from  the  nervous 
strain  that  had  affected  them  all,  more  or  less,  they 
seemed  on  more  intimate  terms  with  one  another 
than  had  recently  been  the  case ;  and  if  the  talk 
was  less  demonstrative  than  it  had  been  during  the 
first  hour  of  their  driving,  it  was  more  genuine. 
When  they  came  out  into  the  office,  Bill  Trumbull, 
who  was  the  only  person  in  the  room,  got  up  from 
his  cushioned  chair  and  made  Tryphena  take  it. 
It  was  an  act  of  gallantry  so  unusual  for  him,  and 
so  opposed  to  his  ordinary  chair-keeping,  conversa 
tion-inviting  method  of  hospitality,  that  it  made 
an  impression  upon  them  all.  On  his  inquiring 
about  the  drive,  Collins  gave  a  laconic  account  of 
what  had  happened,  amid  plenty  of  "Sho's"  from 


THE  BBOUGHTOS  HOUSE.  235 

Bill,  and  a  modest  disclaimer  from  Sonderby. 
Then  Trumbull,  seeing  they  were  gathered  com 
fortably  around  him,  began  to  draw  upon  his  store 
of  reminiscences  of  skittish  horses,  and  told  all  the 
gruesome  and  ludicrous  runaway  accidents  that 
had  happened  in  Broughton  for  forty  years.  From 
uncontrollable  steeds  he  passed  gradually  to  trained 
ones,  and  gave  an  exhaustive  account  of  an  ex 
hibition  of  trick-horses  he  had  seen  in  Boston  the 
second  winter  that  he  had  been  a  member  of  the 
Legislature. 

Seeing  that  his  auditors  were  in  an  appreciative 
mood,  he  made  a  skilful  transition  to  the  subject 
of  raising  colts,  and  it  was  ten  o'clock  by  the  time 
he  had  finished  telling  about  the  marvellous  colts 
he  had  reared,  and  how  the  fastest  of  them  would 
have  been  entered  for  the  2.40  trotting  race  in  the 
annual  cattle  show  and  fair  at  the  county  seat  in 
1876,  had  it  not  been  for  the  unconquerable  aver 
sion  of  'k  Mis'  Trumbull "  to  "  hoss-racin'."  In 
short,  Bill's  talk  was  of  the  most  delightfully  fla 
vored  character,  and  for  once,  as  it  happened,  they 
were  all  content  to  listen  to  him,  and  sorry  to  break 
up  at  last.  It  had  been  like  "old  times"  —  the 
old  times  which  were  only  a  few  days  back,  after 
all. 

Saturday  morning  was  spent  much  as  usual. 
Collins  drove  off  before  daylight  to  a  brook  a  dozen 

•/        O 

miles  distant.  Ellerton  had  arranged  to  accom 
pany  him,  but  had  been  obliged  to  give  it  up. 


236  THE  23ROUGHTON  HOUSE. 

Mrs.  Floyd  posed  again,  though  for  a  short  time 
only,  as  the  picture  was  making  capital  progress, 
and  Floyd  had  almost  reached  the  point  where  he 
could  dispense  with  the  services  of  his  model. 
Sonderby  came  to  the  cottage  for  a  while,  shortly 
before  dinner,  and  lounged  on  the  grass,  chatting 
leisurely  with  Tryphena,  as  if  to  take  Collins's 
place.  Just  as  the  hotel  dinner-bell  was  jangling, 
Collins  returned,  his  six-pound  basket  more  than 
half  full  of  trout,  small  dark  ones  with  yellow 
bellies,  caught  in  the  shadowy  streamlets  of  a  great 
alder  swamp.  At  table  he  narrated  his  adven 
tures,  and  finished  by  declaring  that  he  had  planned 
a  fishing  excursion  for  all  four  of  them  on  the 
Tuesday  following.  That  day,  he  explained,  was 
the  31st  of  July,  and  the  last  available  opportunity 
for  fishing,  for  the  game  law  prohibited  the  taking 
of  trout  after  the  first  of  August.  So  decidedly 
did  the  manufacturer  seem  to  have  set  his  heart 
upon  the  fishing  party,  that  they  all  agreed  to  go, 
and  spent  most  of  the  dinner  hour  in  discussing 
the  details  of  the  project.  When  they  came  out 
upon  the  piazza,  the  other  guests  were  mostly 
assembled  at  the  western  end,  to  watch  a  game  of 
tennis  upon  the  court  which  the  elated  Evans  had 
recently  been  at  the  expense  of  constructing  there. 
They  looked  on  for  a  while,  but  finally  betook 
themselves  to  the  other  end  of  the  piazza,  Avhere 
they  sat,  aimlessly  conversing,  until  the  stage 


THE  BROUGHTOX  HOUSE.  237 

from  the  Center  jolted  up  against  the  Broughton 
House  steps. 

Floyd  and  Sonderby  looked  at  their  watches, 
surprised  that  it  was  so  late ;  and  the  artist,  mum 
bling  something  about  his  picture,  got  up  and 
stretched  himself. 

"  Going  to  work  any  more  ? "  asked  Collins, 
compassionately. 

Floyd  nodded,  squinting  at  him  familiarly. 

"  Well,  go  ahead,"  Collins  remarked.  >;  I  did 
my  work  this  morning ; "  and  he  examined  the 
mosquito  and  midge  bites  on  his  wrists,  and 
thought,  in  satisfied  retrospection,  of  the  mud  and 
the  tangle  of  roots  and  branches  in  the  swamp 
where  he  had  crouched  all  that  forenoon.  Floyd 
lounged  off,  whistling  the  air  of  a  German  student 
song,  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  his  shoulders  stoop 
ing. 

"  Oh,  say  !  "  he  cried,  turning  back  at  the  corner 
of  the  piazza,  where  the  new  sign  cast  a  strip  of 
shadow  oyer  his  face  as  he  spoke,  "  Will  you  get 
my  mail,  Collins,  if  there  is  any  ?  " 

"  Hm  —  humph,"  grunted  Collins,  affirmatively, 
being  at  that  instant  engaged  in  lighting  a  cigar. 

Floyd  disappeared,  and  before  long  Tryphena 
found  the  sun  too  hot"  upon  the  piazza  and  went 
oyer  to  the  cottage,  taking  with  her  a  magazine 
from  the  reading-room  of  the  hotel.  The  two 
men  sat  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  longer,  exchang 
ing  an  occasional  remark,  and  then  Collins  said 


238  THE  BEOUGHTON   HOUSE. 

that  he  guessed  he  would  go  up  to  the  office  for 
his  mail.  Sonderby  volunteered  to  accompany 
him ;  but  when  they  were  opposite  Parkinson's, 
Collins  noticed  Meyer  sitting  disconsolately  in 
front  of  his  shop,  and  decided  thereupon  that  he 
would  have  his  hair  cut. 

"  I'll  get  your  mail,"  said  Sonderby,  a  little  at  a 
loss  what  to  do  with  himself. 

"  All  right.  Oh,  if  there's  anything  for  Floyd, 
bring  it  along,  will  you  ?  " 

But  when  Sonderby  reached  the  post-office,  he 
found  a  letter  for  himself,  and  being  a  man  with 
the  slenderest  correspondence,  was  surprised  into 
forgetting  his  errand  for  Collins.  He  started  back, 
reading  his  letter,  which  was  from  the  A.  S.  &  F. 
Company,  courteously  reminding  him  that  the 
offered  position  could  not  be  held  for  him  much 
longer  and  requesting  a  reply  at  his  earliest  con 
venience.  Sonderby  read  it  through,  and  folded  it, 
moodily.  Of  course  the  A.  S.  &  F.  people  were 
right;  he  had  not  been  business-like  with  them. 
Just  then  he  remembered  that  he  was  to  get  Collins's 
mail,  and  he  retraced  his  steps  to  the  office.  The 
postmistress  gave  him  a  whole  handful  of  letters  for 
the  manufacturer,  and  then  Sonderby  asked  if 
there  was  any  thing  for  Mr.  Floyd. 

"William  J.  Floyd,"  she  repeated  automatically, 
handing  out  a  long  envelope. 

Sonderby  glanced  at  it,  almost  unintentionally, 
as  he  turned  away  from  the  window.  It  was 


THE  BROUGHTON  HOUSE.  239 

stamped  in  New  York  the  day  before,  and  on  the 
upper  left-hand  corner  was  printed:  Hamburg 
Line.  Honest  John  Sonderby  wondered  for  an 
instant  why  Floyd  should  have  any  correspondence 
with  the  steamship  company,  but  his  mind  soon 
went  back  to  his  own  letter.  It  was  evident  that 
a  final  answer  could  not  be  long  delayed. 

As  the  school-teacher  crossed  the  road  to  the 
barber's  shop,  he  was  conscious  of  the  old  awkward 
balance,  not  perceptibly  adjusted,  so  far  as  he 
could  see,  by  his  dogged  work  of  the  last  ten 
days :  upon  the  one  hand,  a  life  work  for  which 
he  was  fitted,  upon  the  other  —  well,  he  could 
not  exactly  phrase  to  himself  what  was  upon  the 
other,  but  there  was  pity  there,  and  sentiment  and 
half-mastered  passion,  a  chivalrous  longing  to  be 
of  help,  as  well  as  a  sluggishness  of  will,  and  the 
treacherous  force  of  the  solitary,  purposeless  life 
he  had  led  for  three  years  —  all  these  and  more 
were  heaped  confusedly  there,  and  he  knew  that  in 
some  fashion  they  must  be  swept  away  before  he 
could  leave  Broughton.  When  he  entered  Meyer's, 
he  found  Collins  enveloped  up  to  his  chin  in  the 
barber's  apron,  and  Meyer  indulging  in  one  of  his 
usual  panegyrics  upon  "  Mr.  Floyt." 

"  Oh,  he  will  not  stay  in  America,"  the  barber 
was  saying.  "See  you,  it  is  too  bourgeois.  He 
must  go  again  to  Germany,  to  the  home  of  art." 
Meyer  stopped  as  he  saw  Sonderby  standing  in  the 
doorway. 


240  THE  SEOUGHTON  HOUSE. 

"Here  are  a  lot  of  letters  for  you,"  said  Son- 
derby,  tossing  them  into  Collins's  lap.  "  And  there 
is  one  for  Floyd,"  he  added. 

Collins  extricated  one  hand  from  beneath  the 
apron,  and  picked  up  the  last  one  dropped.  One 
glance  at  the  envelope  and  he  let  it  fall  again, 
face  downward.  Then  he  turned  over  his  own 
mail  indifferently ;  but  as  he  sat  —  his  chin  buried 
in  the  apron  while  Meyer  was  trimming  the  back 
of  his  neck  —  he  rolled  up  his  black  eyes  till  they 
rested  upon  Sonderby  with  that  quiet,  searching 
scrutiny  to  which  he  had  subjected  the  school 
teacher  ever  since  he  had  seen  the  latter  go  over 
to  the  cottage,  one  rainy  Sunday  morning,  holding 
an  umbrella  over  Mrs.  Floyd.  But  Sonderby  did 
not  notice  the  look,  and  sat  down  to  wait  for  Col 
lins,  taking  up  the  pink-tinted  Police  Gazette  from 
the  barber's  table  only  to  toss  it  away  again  in  dis 
gust.  When  the  manufacturer  was  ready,  the 
men  walked  slowly  back  toward  the  hotel;  and 
when  Collins  turned  in  at  the  cottage,  Sonderby 
followed  him,  unasked.  They  found  Floyd  in  the 
back  yard,  engaged  in  touching  up  with  sienna 
brown  the  shutters  of  his  Venetian  palace. 

"  Hullo  ! "  he  said,  as  they  dropped  beside  him 
on  the  grass,  but  he  did  not  stop  work.  They 
watched  him  for  a  while,  in  some  admiration  of  the 
skill  with  which  he  was  manipulating  his  tiniest 
brushes,  Collins  made  no  reference  to  the  mail; 


THE  BKOUGHTON   HOUSE.  241 

and  Sonderby,  thinking  he  had  forgotten  Floyd's 
letter,  finally  observed : 

"  There  was  a  letter  for  you,  Floyd." 

The  artist  looked  up  quickly. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Collins,  taking  it  out  of  his 
pocket,  with  a  slight  air  of  embarrassment,  and  a 
peculiar  smile,  "  Sure  enough." 

Floyd  reached  out  his  hand  for  it.  He  scowled 
involuntarily  as  he  recognized  the  steamship  com 
pany's  stamp  upon  the  corner,  then  remarked, 
with  a  feigned  indifference — assumed  for  Son- 
derby's  sake,  for  he  suspected  that  the  teacher 
might  have  noticed  the  envelope  : 

"  Another  advertisement.  Those  steamers  have 
kept  sending  their  sailing  lists  to  me,  ever  since  I 
went  over  on  their  line." 

Nevertheless,  Floyd  carefully  put  the  advertise 
ment  into  his  inside  pocket,  and  Collins  changed 
the  subject  abruptly. 


XII. 

THAT  evening  after  supper  Bill  Trumbull  began 
again,  and  with  more  hope  than  usual,  to  throw 
out  hints  about  the  melodeon.  Collins  indeed 
would  have  needed  little  urging,  any  of  the  time, 
and  seeing  that  the  others  were  lingering  about  the 
office  just  as  they  had  done  the  evening  before,  he 
proposed  that  they  honor  Bill  with  some  music. 
Accordingly  the  quartette  gathered  around  the 
melodeon  in  the  parlor,  and  Collins  struck  up 
"  Old  Black  Joe,"  which  was  one  of  the  first  pieces 
they  had  ever  attempted,  and  which  by  dint  of 
practice  they  had  succeeded  in  mastering.  "  Way 
down  upon  the  Suwanee  River  "  followed,  and  then 
came  "  In  the  Sweet  By  and  By,"  which  opened  the 
way  naturally  for  two  or  three  specimens  of  sacred 
melody,  in  which  Bill  Trumbull,  sitting  in  the 
office,  took  a  melancholy  comfort. 

Little  by  little  a  group  of  the  Broughton  House 
guests  gathered  at  the  parlor  door,  and  began  to 
applaud  at  the  end  of  each  secular  tune,  and  to 
nod  the  head,  with  commendatory  sighs,  at  the 
close  of  the  religious  ones. 

Collins  rather  enjoyed  it,  but  the  others  were 
embarrassed.  It  was  so  different  from  the  last  of 
242 


THE  BROFGHTOy  HOUSE.  243 

June  and  the  first  of  July,  when  they  had  had  the 
parlor  all  to  themselves,  and  could  try  as  many 
musical  experiments  as  they  liked !  As  the  crowd 
assembled  at  the  piazza  door,  and  finally  even  in 
the  hall-way,  shutting  out  Bill  from  view  entirely, 
the  singing  grew  more  and  more  unsteady.  At 
last  Collins  reached  his  favorite  duet,  and  as  he 
smoothed  out  the  sheet  of  music  upon  the  rack, 
Floyd  whispered  to  Sonderby,  "  It's  about  time  for 
us  to  get  out  of  this,  isn't  it?  v 

Sonderby  nodded  assent,  and  his  fancy  catching 
at  a  double  meaning  in  the  artist's  words,  he  was 
conscious  of  a  humorous  sort  of  transient  liking 
for  the  fellow.  Floyd,  too,  knew  when  he  was 
superfluous !  Two  weeks  before,  he,  John  Son 
derby,  had  listened  to  this  duet  with  a  vague  pain 
and  with  strange,  disordered  thoughts ;  very  well, 
perhaps  the  husband,  too,  read  something  into 
those  battered  concert-room  lines  !  The  two  men, 
at  any  rate,  sat  down  together  in  the  corner. 

Kiss  me  to-day, 
Wait  not  the  morrow; 
Waiting  is  sorrow, 
Love  me  to-day! 

Collins  was  not  nervous,  certainly.  He  rolled  out 
the  magnificent  bass  notes,  lifting  his  shoulders 
the  while,  and  throwing  back  his  head  so  that  he 
gazed  into  Tryphena's  face  as  he  sang.  Sonderby 
had  never  seen  Collins  look  like  that  before ;  he 


244  THE  BROUGHTON  HOUSE. 

took  a  sudden  dislike  to  the  thick  lips,  and  to  the 
eager,  gleaming  eyes,  and  to  the  whole  dark,  up 
turned,  desirous  face. 

Tremblingly  began  the  soprano  : 

Love  me  to-morrow, 
Like  me  to-day; 
Kisses  betray ; 
Kiss  me  to-morrow  ! 

And  in  John  Sonderby,  who  was  forgetful  of  him 
self  now,  instead  of  absorbed  in  himself,  as  he  had 
been  a  fortnight  before,  there  rose  something  which 
made  his  fist  clench  and  the  muscles  stiffen  along 
his  arm,  as  the  bass  broke  in  with  the  sudden,  pas 
sionate 

Kiss  me  to-day  — 

Ah !  but  Collins's  touch  on  the  keys  was  careless  ; 
he  struck  a  false  note,  and  there  was  such  a  discord 
that  he  stopped,  involuntarily,  an  instant,  leaving 
the  soprano's  frightened 

Kiss  me  to-morrow 

to  flutter  alone,  and  as  he  impatiently  struck  the 
right  key,  she  broke  down  altogether,  and  turned 
impulsively  away. 

The  guests  at  the  doors  applauded  encourag 
ingly,  and  there  were  murmurs  of  "  Go  on  "  ;  but 
Mrs.  Floyd  shook  her  head  and  moved  helplessly 
toward  her  husband. 

"Let's  go  back,"  she  whispered.  The  men 
rose ;  and  Sonderby  shouldered  his  way,  somewhat 


THE  BBOUGHTOX  HOUSE.  245 

impolitely,  through  the  people  in  the  hall,  followed 
by  Mrs.  Floyd  and  the  reluctant  Collins. 

"  Wai,"  said  Bill  Trumbull,  when  they  regained 
the  office,  "that  was  nice.  Reel  nice.  Kind  o' 
soothin'.  Much  obliged  to  ye.  Sit  clown." 

They  sat  down  for  a  while,  but  the  talk  was 
rather  constrained,  and  they  broke  up  early. 

Sunday  morning  was  bright  and  hot.  The  mist 
rose  slowly  from  the  hills,  like  smoke,  and  the  air 
was  windless.  The  dog-days  had  begun.  In  the 
dining-room  of  the  Broughton  House,  at  breakfast- 
time,  it  was  already  close,  and  the  flies  settled  un 
pleasantly  upon  the  tables.  The  women  guests 
wore  their  thinnest  morning  gowns  when  they 
came  in  to  breakfast,  and  their  husbands  looked 
uncomfortable  and  sticky  in  the  starched  Sunday 
linen  for  which  they  had  discarded  their  secular 
flannels  and  cheviots.  In  the  costumes  of  the  four 
persons  at  the  head  of  the  first  table,-  however, 
there  was  not  much  that  was  peculiar  to  the  day. 
Mrs.  Floyd  wore  the  black  alpaca  dress  which  she 
usually  had  on  at  breakfast,  and  the  artist  was 
arrayed  in  his  negligently  buttoned  flannel  shirt. 
Son  derby  was  the  only  one  of  the  four  who  clung 
to  the  New  England  tradition  of  dressing  up  on 
Sunday  morning,  though  the  school-teacher's  black 
cut-away,  worn  shiny  long  ago,  was  a  somewhat  in 
effective  tribute  to  the  venerable  custom.  Collins 


246  THE  BEOUGUTON  HOUSE. 

noticed  it,  however,  and  took  into  his  head  the 
freak  of  going  to  church. 

A  month  or  so  before  he  had  without  much  diffi 
culty  persuaded  the  others  to  go  with  him,  but 
to-day  the  artist  positively  refused,  and  Collins 
did  not  appear  to  urge  him.  Mrs.  Floyd  hesitated 
a  long  time,  but  finally  agreed  to  go,  and  Sonderby 
thereupon  decided  to  accompany  the  party.  They 
started  from  the  cottage  when  church-time  came, 
leaving  Floyd  at  work  upon  his  picture.  As  they 
turned  into  Main  Street,  Bill  Trumbull  joined  them. 
Attired  in  a  neatly  brushed  blue  suit,  with  a  new 
straw  hat  bound  with  a  black  ribbon,  Bill  looked 
exceedingly  respectable.  He  surveyed  the  trio 
with  paternal  interest. 

"  Goin'  to  church,  be  ye  ?  That's  right !  Come 
and  sit  long  o'  me,  won't  ye  ?  Mirandy's  baby's 
got  a  leetle  tetch  of  cholery  morbis,  and  she's 
goin'  to  stay  to  home." 

Collins  accepted  for  the  party  the  proffered  invi 
tation;  and  they  all  walked  along  together,  Collins 
holding  Tryphena's  black  parasol  over  her  head, 
somewhat  to  her  embarrassment,  —  for  such  a  cour 
tesy  was  unusual  in  Broughton,  and  would  be 
noticed  by  every  woman  on  the  street,  —  while  the 
school-teacher  and  Trumbull  brought  up  the  rear. 
Bill  had  not  been  much  of  a  church-goer  during 
his  active  days  of  proprietorship  of  the  hotel,  hav 
ing  always  considered  that  the  entertainment  of 
his  guests  was  his  first  duty ;  but  since  the  death 


THE  BEOUGHTOS  HOUSE.  247 

of  Mrs.  Trumbull  he  had  been  pretty  regular  in 
his  attendance,  and  was  regarded  as  being  in  a 
hopeful  state  of  mind.  He  ushered  his  friends 
with  commendable  dignity  into  the  Trumbull  pew, 
which,  though  it  had  never  during  the  memory  of 
Samuel  Parkinson,  parish  treasurer,  paid  a  penny  of 
rent,  was  always  reserved,  at  the  spring  allotment 
of  pews,  for  the  genial  hotel  proprietor. 

The  faded  green  cushion    was  not  uncomforta- 

O 

ble.  and  the  back,  albeit  a  trifle  too  perpendicular, 
might  easily  have  been  worse.  One  of  the  big, 
tall  side  windows  of  the  church  was  close  to  the 
end  of  the  pew,  and  a  breeze  almost  always  found 
its  way  in  ;  for  the  high  white  church  on  the  knoll 
was  in  an  airy  place,  from  whatever  quarter  the 
wind  might  happen  to  be  blowing.  In  short,  Col 
lins  had  not  been  wrong  in  declaring  at  the  break 
fast  table  that  the  Orthodox  church  was  the  coolest 
spot  in  town  on  a  hot  day. 

Arthur  Ellerton  preached  that  morning  an  amia 
ble,  sensible,  exhortatoiy  discourse  on  the  subject 
of  kk  Family  Religion."  Bill  Trumbull  listened  at 
tentively,  his  blue  eyes  set  encouragingly  upon  the 
young  pastor,  and  growing  moist,  once  or  twice, 
at  some  allusion.  John  Sonderby,  sitting  next 
Trumbull,  did  not  give  any  particular  observance 
to  what  was  said.  His  thoughts  were  far  afield. 
When  the  minister  announced  the  meeting  of  the 
Young  People's  Society  of  Christian  Endeavor,  and 
the  topic,  Sonderby  wondered  if  Ruth  Ellerton 


248  THE  BEOUGHTON  HOUSE. 

would  be  there,  and  what  she  could  say  upon  it ; 
and  then  he  began  to  think  over  what  she  had  said 
on  that  rainy  Sunday  evening  in  the  lecture-room, 
and  how  he  had  walked  home  with  her  and  listened 
to  her  grave,  hesitating,  anxious  words  to  himself 
as  they  stood  on  the  parsonage  steps.  But  that 
was  the  nearest  he  came  to  any  line  of  reflection 
connected  with  the  church  service. 

Collins  contemplated  the  bare  white-painted 
interior,  and  the  farmer  and  village  people  who 
nearly  filled  the  pews,  with  a  pleasurable  sort  of 
criticism.  He  had  spent  enough  weeks  in  Brough- 
ton,  during  half  a  dozen  years,  to  become  fairly 
familiar  with  its  types,  and  to  get  some  amuse 
ment  out  of  them.  He  listened  good-naturedly  to 
the  efforts  of  the  choir,  arid  half  wished  he  were 
one  of  them.  Ellerton,  standing  up  there  in  the 
high  mahogany  pulpit,  with  its  quaint  pillars  and 
queer  twisting  stairs,  was  rather  an  interesting 
figure  to  Collins,  and  he  thought  of  the  parson's 
zeal  for  fishing  and  for  other  matters  of  this  world, 
and  at  the  same  time  was  convinced  that  Ellerton, 
in  the  course  of  the  thirty-minute  sermon,  was  say 
ing  a  good  many  practical  things,  which  might 
very  likely  be  true. 

Tryphena  looked  out  of  the  window  more  or 
less,  not  finding  that  the  discourse  upon  "  Family 
Religion  "  had  any  special  helpfulness  in  its  appli 
cation  to  the  Floyd  family.  She  knew  Aunt 
Tryphena  would  have  been  pleased  by  all  that 


THE  BEOUGHTON  HOUSE.  249 

Ellerton  said,  and  then  she  looked  across  the  road 
to  the  old  burying-ground,  with  its  thick  rows  of 
blackening,  lichen-grown  slabs,  and  tried  to  pick 
out  Aunt  Tryphena's  grave. 

Two  or  three  pews  behind  Trumbull  sat  Ruth 
Ellerton,  watching  Sonderby  and  his  companions 
with  a  kind  of  trouble  in  her  heart.  As  the  weeks 
had  slipped  away,  her  conviction  had  increased 
that  this  summer  was  forcing*  upon  the  school 
teacher  a  spiritual  crisis,  and  that  the  influences 
surrounding  him,  in  his  life  at  the  hotel,  were  not 
favorable.  But  she  really  knew  little  about  him  : 
he  had  not  even  called,  after  his  invitation  to  tea 
at  the  parsonage.  Neither  had  the  Floyds  re 
turned  the  Ellertons'  call,  and  with  Ruth  Ellerton 's 
pity  for  the  slender  young  woman  before  her,  look 
ing  out  of  the  window  with  idle  eyes,  there  was 
mingled  a  quite  feminine  consolation  in  the  fact 
that  at  any  rate  she  had  fulfilled  her  own  social 
duty  toward  the  artist's  wife.  Still,  she  wondered, 
as  before,  what  sort  of  woman  Mrs.  Floyd  was, 
and  why  Mr.  Sonderby  was  so  attracted  by  her, 
and  what  the  manufacturer,  Mr.  Collins,  found  to 
interest  him  in  these  people  whose  pursuits  were  so 
unlike  his  own.  Mrs.  Ellerton  saw,  too,  that  Bill 
Trumbull  was  the  only  one  of  the  four  who  was  giv 
ing  much  regard  to  Arthur's  sermon,  and  she  felt 
vexed  that  her  husband  had  happened  to  choose  this 
special  topic  for  that  Sunday.  If  he  had  only  been 
preaching  about  something  else  —  something  that 


250  THE  BEOUGHTON  HOUSE. 

might  touch  those  indifferent  people  in  that  Truin- 
bull  pew !  If  she  could  only  signal  to  Arthur  in 
some  way,  and  get  him  to  make  an  excursus,  or  an 
application,  or  something  or  other  that  would 
catch  the  attention  of  these  people  and  hold  them 
and  win  them  thereby  to  the  Truth!  And  the 
time  was  going  so  fast !  Paul's  phrase  about  the 
" foolishness  of  preaching"  Mrs.  Ellerton  had 
never  been  able  to  apply,  least  of  all  to  the  ser 
mons  of  her  husband. 

When  the  benediction  was  pronounced,  and  the 
audience  worked  its  way  toward  the  front  doors, 
Mrs.  Ellerton,  who  remained  to  teach  her  Sunday- 
school  class,  stood  at  the  end  of  her  pew  as  the 
Broughton  House  people  passed  out.  Collins 
bowed,  and  Sonderby  nodded,  with  a  friendly  rec 
ognition  in  his  face  ;  but  Mrs.  Floyd  happened  to 
be  looking  in  the  other  direction. 

On  the  way  back  to  the  cottage,  Bill  took  it 
upon  himself  to  entertain  the  company,  albeit  in 
a  decorously  subdued  fashion,  by  his  opinion  of 
the  sermon,  of  the  minister,  and  of  ministers  in 
general.  The  sermon  he  declared  to  be  "Scrip- 
teral,"  and  the  minister  a  "  likely  one,"  a  "  dreadful 
smart  man,"  —  the  more  so  when  contrasted  with 
the  other  clergymen  of  the  conference,  whom  Bill 
described  as  "  runnin'  emptins,"  and  "  good  enough 
for  a  lowery  day,"  to  the  mystification  of  Collins 
and  the  amusement  of  the  others. 

The  dinner  hour  was  not  very  sociable.     Perhaps 


THE  BROUGHTOX   HOUSE.  251 

it  was  the  hot  weather.  At  any  rate,  the  mutual 
intimacy  of  the  quartette,  which  had  seemed  to 
thrive  again  since  the  runaway,  appeared  now  to 
be  diminishing  once  more.  Floyd  talked  mostly 
with  Collins.  Mrs.  Floyd  and  Sonderby  found 
nothing  to  converse  about  which  they  had  not 
already  discussed  two  or  three  times.  Yet  Son 
derby  was  never  bored  with  her,  nor  annoyed  into 
that  sulky  reticence  whither  he  often  withdrew 
when  talking  with  persons  who  did  not  appeal  to 
him;  his  principal  feeling  in  these  times  of  un 
profitable  intercourse  with  Mrs.  Floyd  was  one  of 
disappointment,  because  he  knew  how  much  they 
might  say  to  each  other  —  in  the  right  time  and 
place. 

It  was  with  this  sentiment  of  disappointment, 
pathetic  in  its  realization  of  the  true  things  and 
the  deep  things  which  were  crowded  out  by  con 
ventionality,  by  circumstances  —  by  their  set  habit 
of  trite  "talk,  too,  it  must  be  said —  that  John  Son 
derby  left  Tryphena  after  dinner  and  went  to  his 
room.  He  spent  there  a  restless,  suspicious  two 
hours.  Once  or  twice  he  sat  down  at  his  desk 
and  took  a  sheet  of  paper,  in  the  pretence  of  writ 
ing  to  the  A.  S.  &  F.  Company,  but  he  knew  that  he 
was  only  creating  for  himself  a  deliberate  illusion. 
He  could  not  write  them  definitely.  It  was  the 
old  story.  Fourteen  days  had  slipped  away  since 
he  had  had  any  serious  talk  with  her,  since  any 
thing  but  commonplaces  had  passed  between  them. 


252  THE  BEOUGHTON  HOUSE. 

True  enough,  she  had  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm 
once,  not  so  swiftly  and  shyly  but  that  he  had 
noticed  it,  and  would  almost  have  given  the  right 
arm  itself  to  know  just  what  she  meant  by  it. 
Yet  he  did  not  know.  The  old  story,  with  the 
same  characters,  the  same  plot,  and  the  end  not 
yet.  Till  something  was  cleared  out  of  the  way, 
something  settled  in  himself,  —  and  he  knew  well 
enough  that  this  something,  whatever  it  was,  had 
to  do  with  Tryphena  Floyd,  —  he  could  not  go  to 
Boston.  The  fourteen  days,  with  their  alterna 
tion  of  severe  mental  application  and  benumbing 
manual  labor,  had,  at  least,  made  him  less  restless, 
forced  him  to  think  less  of  himself ;  but  now  in 
the  leisure  of  Sunday,  he  seemed  to  have  gained 
nothing  by  it  all. 

A  noise  of  wheels  outside,  in  the  direction  of 
the  cottage,  and  Collins's  deep,  vibrant  laugh  made 
him  go  to  the  window  and  open  the  shutters,  which 
had  been  tightly  closed  because  of  the  heat.  The 
hotel  buggy  stood  in  the  driveway  between  the 
cottage  and  the  Broughton  House,  and  in  it  were 
Collins  and  Mrs.  Floyd.  Floyd  stood  by  the 
horse's  head. 

Collins  held  the  reins  in  his  right  hand  and  was 
leaning  across  her  to  tuck  the  duster  around  her 
knees.  She  was  saying  something  to  him,  and 
Sonderby  noticed,  with  a  curious  particularity  of 
attention,  that  she  wore  a  bonnet  he  had  not  seen 
before,  and  that  her  eyes  were  animated  and  her 


THE  EEOUGHTON  HOUSE.  253 

cheeks  colored  as  she  looked  down  at  Collins, 
stooping  across  her,  while  she  drew  on  a  pair  of 
dark  brown  lisle-thread  gloves.  Collins  chirped 
to  the  horse,  and  off  they  went  toward  the  east 
part  of  the  town.  Sonderby  closed  the  shutter 
viciously  and  began  to  pace  up  and  down  the  room 
again,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets.  He  was  more 
hurt  by  what  he  had  seen  than  he  would  have 
owned  to  himself.  He  had  no  earthly  objections 
to  Mrs.  Floyd's  going  driving  with  Bruce  D.  Col 
lins  if  she  wanted  to  ;  she  probably  knew  Collins 
as  well  as  he,  John  Sonderby,  did.  He  was  not 
over-scrupulous  about  social  conventionalities,  but 
he  had,  nevertheless,  a  sort  of  sentiment  which 
protested  against  her  going  off  with  Collins  in  this 
way  on  Sunday  afternoon. 

Sunday  driving  was  regarded  by  Broughton  peo 
ple  as  sacrilegious,  fit  only  for  persons  who  be 
longed  in  the  Center,  and  for  summer  boarders, 
who  brought  with  them  to  the  country  their  Sab 
bathless  ways.  Now  Mrs.  Floyd  knew  the  village 
opinion  perfectly  well,  for  it  was  the  atmosphere 
in  which  she  had  grown  up  to  womanhood.  Her 
open  disregard  of  it  struck  the  school-teacher  un 
pleasantly  ;  it  betrayed  too  much  indifference  to 
the  standards  of  right  and  wrong  that  prevailed 
in  the  community,  and  Sonderby,  though  indepen* 
dent  enough  himself  in  such  matters,  shared  the 
common  masculine  conviction  that  nice  women 
should  do  just  as  other  nice  women  do.  He  knew 


254  THE  BROUGHTON  HOUSE. 

that  Mrs.  Floyd  was  in  some  sort  of  trouble,  nay, 
a  very  definite  kind  of  trouble,  and  he  did  not  care 
to  think  of  her  driving  off  gaily  on  a  Sabbath  after 
noon  with  a  thorough  worldling  like  Collins.  It 
made  her  seem  as  much  of  a  worldling  as  Collins 
himself. 

Sonderby  stopped  suddenly  in  his  walk,  after  a 
variety  of  reflections  of  this  character,  and  said  to 
himself,  "  Look  here,  my  son,  is  the  fact  that  she 
has  gone  driving  with  another  man  really  what  ails 
you?"  He  faced  the  question  honestly,  but  for 
the  life  of  him  he  could  not  answer ;  and  then 
came  a  quick  revulsion  of  feeling  against  all  this 
introspection,  and  he  felt  smothered  for  some  free 
air.  What  did  he  know  about  himself,  about  her, 
about  anything  ? 

He  put  on  his  walking-shoes  and  an  old  cap,  and 
hurried  out  into  the  diffused  glare  of  the  dog-day 
sunshine.  Unscrupulous  about  his  own  defiance 
of  Broughton  customs,  he  tramped  off  down  the 
street  at  a  racing  pace,  in  front  of  the  trim  white 
houses  where  the  Sabbath-keeping  villagers  sat  on 
their  front  piazzas,  with  religious  newspapers  in 
their  hands,  discontented  children  around  their 
feet,  and  upon  their  lips  questions  and  guesses  as 
to  the  passing  teams.  He  left  the  academy  on  the 
right,  and  climbing  one  long  hill  after  another,  got 
rapidly  out  of  sight  of  the  village.  The  road  was 
white  with  fine  dust;  the  purple  milkweed  blossoms 
were  ashy  gray  with  it ;  it  was  thick  upon  the  plan- 


THE  BROUGIITOX   UOUSE.  2oO 

tain  leaves  that  pushed  themselves  out  upon  the  side 
of  the  roadwa}'.  Xo  birds  sang ;  only  the  swallows 
circled  low  over  the  meadows,  or  twittered  under 
the  barnyard  eaves  of  the  deserted  farmhouses,  all 
along  the  desolate  road.  Hotter  and  hotter  glared 
the  sun,  as  it  fell  lower  in  the  hazy  west.  But 
John  Sonderby  cared  for  neither  the  dust,  nor  the 
swallows,  nor  the  sun.  He  threw  himself  desper 
ately  into  physical  exertion,  letting  his  mind  go 
out  entirely  —  like  a  candle.  He  was  conscious 
only  of  his  rapid  breathing,  and  of  the  play  of  his 
muscles.  Nevertheless,  at  five  o'clock,  when  he 
was  seven  or  eight  miles  from  Broughton,  he  felt 
thirsty  and  a  trifle  faint,  and  stopped  at  a  farm 
house  for  a  glass  of  milk.  It  was  one  of  his  own 
pupils  —  an  awkward-looking  boy  —  who  came  to 
the  kitchen  door ;  and  then  Sonderby  remembered 
that  the  fellow  lived  out  that  way.  He  asked  for 
some  milk,  and  the  boy  summoned  a  bustling 
mother,  who  made  the  school-teacher  come  in ;  and 
although  in  some  surprise  at  Sonderby 's  Sunday 
walk,  she  kept  her  curiosity  to  herself.  The  milk 
tasted  good  to  him ;  there  was  a  likable,  homely 
flavor,  too,  to  the  conversation  of  these  farming 
folks,  to  whom  "the  street"  represented  a  world  of 
civilization  and  culture  to  which  they  did  not  at  all 
aspire,  except  in  so  far  as  they  prized  the  academy. 
In  chatting  a  half-hour  with  them,  Sonderby  forgot 
all  about  the  Broughton  House ;  and  they  were  so 
evidently  glad  to  see  him,  and  the  farmhouse  seemed 


256  THE  BROUGHTON  HOUSE. 

so  hospitable  and  quiet,  that  he  accepted  their  invi 
tation  to  take  supper.  It  was  thick  dusk  when  he 
started  toward  the  village  at  last,  and  in  trying  to 
make  a  short  cut  through  a  wood-road  he  lost  his 
landmarks,  and  was  forced  into  a  detour  of  two  or 
three  miles.  When  he  finally  got  into  the  right  road 
again,  it  was  so  dark  that  he  could  scarcely  see  the 
floury  dust  through  which  his  feet  were  ploughing. 
By  and  by  the  stars  became  more  radiant,  though 
the  night  was  thick  and  hot,  like  the  day,  and  full 
of  mist.  At  half-past  nine  he  saw  the  lights  of  the 
village,  and  by  a  quarter  of  ten  he  was  under  the 
looming  shadow  of  the  academy,  almost  at  home. 

He  sat  down  on  the  academy  steps  a  moment  to 
rest,  leaning  his  back  against  one  of  the  big  hollow 
Doric  pillars,  with  both  hands  clasped  around  his 
knee.  The  fluting  of  the  pillar  pressed  sharply 
against  his  head,  and  he  pushed  his  cap  back  till 
it  served  as  a  cushion.  Then  he  sat  motionless. 
The  old  academy  steps  !  How  many  times  he  had 
come  out  upon  this  southeast  corner  of  them, 
cracked  school-bell  in  hand,  to  summon  the  boys 
and  girls  from  their  rough  and  silly  games  upon 
the  playground  !  How  many  times  had  he  shov 
elled  them  off,  winter  mornings,  when  they  were 
drifted  more  than  a  foot  deep  with  snow  ;  and  how 
cold  it  had  been  inside,  when  he  had  unlocked 
the  door  and  kindled  a  fire  in  the  stove,  —  a  huge, 
bulging-sided,  hippopotamus-looking  affair,  —  and 
then  had  swept  the  room  before  he  went  back  to 


THE  BROUGHTOX  HOUSE.  257 

his  boarding-house  for  breakfast !  Three  winters  ! 
Three  years  !  It  was  a  long  time  ;  a  solitary,  and 
in  some  sense  unfruitful  period,  yet  not  unlabo- 
rious.  Perhaps,  Sonderby  thought  to  himself,  he 
was  after  all  as  well  fitted  for  school-teaching  as 
for  anything  else.  Xot  that  he  cared  anything 
about  it,  really,  except  that  it  gave  him  a  living, 
and  kept  him  fairly  busy ;  but  what  more  could 
one  expect  ?  He  might,  too,  have  made  more  of 
his  opportunities.  There,  for  instance,  was  the 
young  fellow  at  whose  house  he  had  taken  supper 
that  night ;  why  could  he  not  have  gone  there 
long  before  and  learned  to  know  the  boy  bet 
ter  and  found  out  what  was  wisest  for  him  to 
work  at  in  the  academy?  There  was  the  stoop- 
shouldered  girl  with  whom  he  had  walked  to  the 
Y.  P.  S.  C.  E.  meeting;  for  three  years  she  had 
been  under  him,  and  he  had  hardly  ever  spoken 
to  her  except  in  recitation  time ;  it  would  have 
been  so  easy  to  give  her  a  little  pleasure.  There 
was  —  Hark ! 

Down  on  the  Center  road,  in  the  very  outskirts 
of  the  village,  some  one  was  singing.  Hark ! 
Above  the  chirp  of  the  crickets  and  the  grating  of 
the  tree-toads,  there  came  a  clear,  rich  voice : 

And  now  whate'er  befalls  me. 
I  go  where  honor  calls  me; 
Farewell,  farewell, 
My  own  true  love,  farewell. 


258  THE  BEOUGHTON  HOUSE. 

"  It's  Collins,"  Sonderby  muttered,  and  listened 
again,  while  the  academy  and  all  connected 
thoughts  were  carried  out  of  his  mind  by  the 
rush  of  associations  which  that  distant  voice 
brought  with  it. 

Farewell,  farewell, 

My  own  true  love,  farewell. 

There  was  silence  once  more,  except  for  the  crick 
ets.  Three  or  four  minutes  passed.  Then,  start- 
lingly  near,  this  time,  so  quiet  was  the  night,  came 
the  rollicking  bass  : 

Good  night,  ladies, 

Good  night,  ladies  —  good  night,  ladies, 

We're  going  to  leave  you  now. 

Merrily  we  roll  along,  roll  along,  roll  along, 

Merrily  we  roll  along, 

O'er  the  dark  blue  sea. 

Sonderby  turned,  and  looked  around  from  behind 
the  pillar.  The  singer  was  still  invisible,  though 
only  a  hundred  yards  away,  on  the  other  side  of 
the  academy,  apparently  in  front  of  one  of  the  first 
houses  on  the  Center  road. 

Sweet  dreams,  ladies, 
Sweet  dreams,  ladies, 
Sweet  dreams,  ladies, 
We're  going  to  leave  you  now. 

There  was  no  mistaking  the  voice.  Sonderby 
thought  of  a  foggy  night  in  June,  before  the 
Floyds  came,  when  Collins  had  made  him  go  out 
for  a  walk  on  the  North  Broughton  road,  and  had 


THE  BROUGHTON  HOUSE.  259 

stopped  at  every  farmhouse  and  insisted  on  singing 
a  serenade.  Collins  had  been  in  peculiarly  high 
spirits  that  night,  and  the  school-teacher  had  since 
suspected  that  he  had  been  drinking  a  little.  Son- 
derby  wondered  who  was  with  the  manufacturer 

now. 

Farewell,  ladies, 
Farewell,  ladies, 
Farewell,  ladies, 
We're  going  to  leave  you  now. 

"  Oh,  shut  up,  Collins  !  Come  along !  "  inter 
rupted  a  hoarse  voice.  The  school-teacher  sat  up 
straight  and  pulled  his  cap  forward.  Of  course  it 
was  Floyd,  Floyd  and  his  friend  Collins ;  one 
might  have  guessed  it.  The  grumbling  murmur 
of  their  voices  drew  nearer  and  nearer,  up  the 
fork  of  the  road;  they  were  not  keeping  step, 
and  Sonderby  seemed  to  hear  the  shuffle  of  many 
feet  in  the  dust.  In  a  moment  more  they  were 
abreast  of  the  academy,  and  Sonderby  heard 
them  halt,  though  he  could  scarcely  make  out  their 
figures. 

"  Say,  les'  sit  down,"  Floyd  said.  "  It's  so 
damned  hot !  Les'  sit  clown." 

"All  right,"  chimed  in  Collins's  voice,  with 
jocund  emphasis.  "  Mr.  William  J.  Floyd,  I  will 
sit  down  to  your  health.  c  How  can  I  bear  to 
leave  thee  ? ' '  And  clapping  the  artist  on  the 
shoulder,  Collins  dropped  heavily  on  to  the  acad 
emy  steps  beside  him,  at  the  opposite  end  from 


260  THE  BROUGHTON  HOUSE. 

Sonderby,  who  sat  motionless  behind  his  pillar, 
feeling  something  like  a  thief. 

"  Say,  don't  sing  any  more,"  growled  Floyd. 
"  You'll  wake  up  the  whole  town." 

"  What  do  you  care  for  the  town  ?  "  demanded 
Collins.  "  You  profane  old  euchre-player !  Much 
you  care  for  the  town  of  Broughton." 

Floyd  made  no  reply.  He  was  trying  to  recall, 
as  well  as  his  somewhat  fuddled  brain  would  allow, 
just  what  he  had  said  to  Collins,  confidentially, 
over  that  last  glass  of  punch.  There  was  some 
dispute  about  a  jack  of  hearts,  and  they  had  quar 
relled  and  stopped  playing,  and  made  up,  and  in 
the  succeeding  burst  of  friendship  he  had  told  Col 
lins  something  about  Munich,  or  Venice,  or  Wat 
son,  or  Phenie,  or  something,  —  so  much  he  could 
remember.  Then  it  had  grown  so  hot  in  Collins's 
room,  and  the  lamp  was  so  bright,  —  as  bright  as 
two,  —  and  Collins  was  a  good  fellow,  a  damned 
reliable  fellow,  and  they  had  come  out  to  walk 
together,  and  Collins  had  been  singing  at  every 
house  on  the  Center  road :  Collins  must  have  had 
too  much  punch. 

"  Collins,"  Floyd  remarked,  after  this  mental 
excursion,  "  you're  a  good  fellow.  You're  a  good 
friend  of  mine.  Say,  ain't  you  ? "  Floyd  was 
struggling  against  an  unusual  thickness  of  speech. 

Collins  grunted  affirmatively  and  waited. 

"  I'd  like  to  'splain  something  to  you,  Collins," 
Floyd  continued,  with  gravity.  "  I  don't  want  to 


THE  BEOUGHTON  HOUSE.  261 

have  you  get  a  wrong  impression  of  me  —  of  any 
such  friend  of  yours,  as  you  are  a  friend  to  me. 
Perhaps  you  misunderstood  what  I  said  about  — 
that  matter,  you  know.  Now  I  want  you  to  under 
stand  that  I'm  a  gentleman ;  a  gentleman  and  an 
artist.  Did  I  say  anything  about  going  away  ?  " 

"  Going  away  ?  "  repeated  Collins,  in  a  feigned 
tone  that  struck  Sonderby  instantly  as  insincere, 
and  made  him  think  that  the  manufacturer  was 
not  so  drunk  as  he  pretended  to  be.  "  Going 
away  ? "  Collins  seemed  to  be  searching  in  the 
dim  recesses  of  his  memory. 

"  Yes,"  said  Floyd,  anxiously.  "  Don't  you 
know  ?  To  Munich  —  pretty  soon." 

"  Oh !  "  Collins  evidently  recalled  something 
of  the  sort. 

"  Say !  I  don't  want  to  have  you  misunderstand 
me.  It's  going  to  be  a  square  deal,  you  know  — 
nothing  underhanded  about  it.  I  want  to  have 
you  understand  that  I'm  a  gentleman,  Mr.  Collins, 
Mr.  Bruce  D.  Collins.  If  I  am  obliged  to  go  to 
Munich  —  temp'rarily  —  temp'rarily  —  I  shall  sup 
port  my  wife  —  while  I  am  over  on  the  other  side 
—  a  —  a  —  temp'rarily,  — 

"  Of  course,"  broke  in  Collins,  soothingly. 

"  Oh,  well,  that's  all  right,"  Floyd  went  on,  re 
lieved  by  Collins's  answer.  "  I  didn't  want  to  have 
you  think  there  was  to  be  any  funny  business  — 
you  know  —  leaving  Phenie  here  — ah  —  'bandon- 
ing  her  to  th'  elements,  you  know.  I'm  a  gentle- 


262  THE  BROUGHTON   HOUSE. 

man,  Mr.  Collins  ;  you're  a  gentleman.  Say  !  you 
know  my  wife,  don't  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,"  assented  Collins. 

"  That's  all  right,  then.  I  wouldn't  say  this  ex 
cept  to  a  friend  —  a  friend  of  my  family,  Mr.  Col 
lins.  You  don't  think  it's  anything  d'rogatory,  do 
you,  for  me  to  engage  a  single  passage  on  the 
Ham  — Ham  - 

"  Hammonia  ?  "  put  in  Collins. 

"  On  the  Hammonia.  My  wife  can  take  care  of 
herself,  Mr.  Collins,  right  here  in  Broughton. 
She's  a  property-holder.  She's  independent.  But 
I'm  not  independent  in  'Merica,  Collins  ;  it's  a  free 
country,  but  I'm  not  independent.  Say  !  you  don't 
think  there  would  be  anything  d'rogatory,  do 
you?" 

"  Derogatory  ?  Hell,  no  !  "  The  explosive  em 
phasis  of  Collins's  voice  seemed  to  clear  up  the 
moral  difficulty  that  bothered  poor  Floyd. 

"  Well,  that's  all  right,  then.  This  is  between 
us,  Mr.  Collins,  you  being  a  friend  of  mine  —  'n  a 
friend  of  my  family.  Say  !  it's  hot,  ain't  it  ?  What 
time  is  it  ?  " 

Collins  fumbled  in  his  pocket,  and  then  a  parlor 
match  spurted.  Sonderby  shrank  close  behind  his 
pillar. 

"  Not  much  after  ten,"  replied  the  manufacturer, 
consulting  his  watch.  "  It  isn't  late."  And  he 
began  to  whistle  the  air  of  "  We  won't  go  home 
till  morning." 


THE  BROUGHTON   HOUSE.  263 

"  No,  les'  go  home  now."  A  state  of  stupor  was 
succeeding  the  mental  effort  to  which  the  artist 
had  subjected  himself.  He  got  up,  rather  noisily, 
and  endeavored  to  pull  Collins  after  him  ;  but  the 
manufacturer  kept  his  seat,  and  Floyd  fell  over 
on  to  him,  amid  some  laughter.  Then  this  com 
panionable  pair  rose  simultaneously  and  started 
of!  with  locked  arms,  Collins  singing,  but  almost 
under  breath,  the  chorus  of  "  Good  night,  Ladies." 

Merrily  we  roll  along,  roll  along,  roll  along, 
Merrily  we  roll  along,  o'er  the  dark  blue  sea. 

" '  The  dark  blue  sea,' "  repeated  Floyd,  in  a 
hoarse  murmur.  "  What  do  you  know  about  the 
dark  blue  sea  ?  Next  week,  Mr.  Collins,  Mr. 
Bruce  D.  Collins,  next  week,  '  the  dark '  — 4  O'er 
the  dark'  —  " 

And  failing  to  complete  his  sentence,  and  failing 
equally  to  hit  the  proper  key  of  the  chorus,  Floyd 
subsided  into  silence,  as  the  two  men  went  on  up 
the  road,  which  turned  under  the  elm  arches  here, 
as  if  entering  a  huge  black  cavern. 

John  Sonderby  leaped  to  his  feet,  and  stood 
listening  till  the  footsteps  grew  faint,  and  he  could 
hear  nothing  but  the  pounding  of  his  own  heart. 
Then  he  dashed  his  fist  into  the  palm  of  his  other 
hand,  with  a  smothered  cry.  How  stupid  he  had 
been !  Floyd  not  only  did  not  love  her,  but  he 
was  going  to  leave  her,  to  leave  her  there  in 
Broughton  alone.  And  he  had  blabbed  his  plan 
over  a  drunken  game  of  euchre.  The  hound ! 


264  THE  BROUGHTON  PIOUSE. 

The  blood  rushed  into  Sonderby 's  temples  till  he 
was  dizzy,  and  in  the  blackness  of  the  misty  night 
around  him,  he  saw  again  the  slim,  white,  rigid 
arms,  and  heard  again  the  low,  despairing  words  — 
words  not  of  a  dream,  but  of  a  real  woman  toward 
whom  his  heart  had  opened  and  who  had  sat  all 
that  summer  by  his  side  —  "  You  cannot  help  me  — 
no  one  can  help  me." 

Not  help  her?  Not  be  with  her?  Not  give 
himself  over  to  her  ?  He  sank  back  on  the  academy 
steps  again,  a  strange  elation  in  his  heart.  .  .  . 

The  next  morning  Arthur  Ellerton,  who  had 
been  recently  chosen  a  member  of  the  Broughton 
school  committee,  called  upon  Sonderby  to  learn 
whether  he  would  continue  at  the  academy  for 
another  year. 

"I  declare,  that  Sonderby  is  a  queer  fellow," 
the  minister  said  to  his  wife,  on  his  return. 

Ruth  Ellerton  was  in  the  sitting-room,  wearing 
a  big  calico  apron,  and  shelling  peas  for  dinner. 
She  put  up  her  hand  for  her  husband  to  kiss  as  he 
came  in. 

"  I  don't  know  what  to  make  of  him,"  he  con 
tinued,  dropping  Mrs.  Ellerton's  hand,  although 
very  deliberately.  "  He  was  up  in  his  room  in  the 
hotel,  with  his  door  locked,  and  if  I  hadn't  known 
he  was  a  perfectly  straight  fellow,  I  should  have 
said  he  had  been  on  a  debauch.  Appeared  not  to 
have  slept ;  wouldn't  look  me  in  the  face." 


THE  BROUGHTON  HOUSE.  265 

"  Oh,  Arthur !  "  remonstrated  Mrs.  Ellerton,  a 
troubled  look  coming  over  her  beautiful  gray  eyes. 

"  But  he's  going  to  stay." 

"  Is  he  ?  "  she  cried.  "  I  am  so  glad  !  You're 
sure  he  isn't  going  to  Boston  ? "' 

**  He  told  me  he  had  just  written  declining  some 
offer  there.  I  presume  it  was  the  one  we  heard 
about.  I  felt  a  trine  awkward  about  the  possible 
reduction  of  the  salary,  though,"  added  Ellerton, 
taking  off  his  coat  and  sitting  down  to  help 
shell  the  peas  ;  "  but  I  had  to  tell  him  that  the 
committee  thought  it  doubtful  whether  the  same 
salary  could  be  paid  another  winter.  It  seems 
that  they  all  want  to  have  him  stay,  even  if  he  has 
shortened  the  devotional  exercises  and  doesn't  call 
upon  the  parents.  They  say  that  the  scholars  will 
do  anything  for  the  fellow.  Still,  nine  hundred 
dollars  is  a  good  deal  for  us  to  raise,  and  I  told 
him  so." 

"What  did  he  say?" 

"  That  was  one  of  the  queer  things  about  it,  for 
he  must  be  poor ;  of  course  he's  poor.  He  looked 
at  me  —  it  was  almost  the  only  time  when  he  did 
look  square  at  me  —  and  said  it  wasn't  a  matter 
of  salary  with  him." 

"  Oh,  he  is  such  a  splendid  fellow,  Arthur  !  " 
she  exclaimed,  her  eyes  growing  soft  with  enthu 
siasm.  "  He  could  do  so  much  good  here  !  We 
must  ask  him  again  to  tea." 


XIII. 

TUESDAY,  the  thirty-first  of  July,  was  the  day 
decided  on  for  that  fishing-party  upon  which 
Collins  had  set  his  heart.  All  the  afternoon 
before  he  had  spent  in  the  back  yard  of  the  cot 
tage,  with  his  rods  and  tackle  spread  around  him 
on  the  grass,  engaged  in  preparing  a  complete 
outfit  for  the  other  members  of  the  quartette. 
Mrs.  Floyd,  as  well  as  the  men,  had  been  made 
to  promise  to  try  her  hand  at  throwing  a  fly,  and 
Collins  had  planned  to  finish  their  sport  at  the 
meadows  of  Calvin  Johnson's  farm,  where  they 
could  probably  get  permission  to  fish,  as  it  was 
the  last  day  upon  which  the  game  laws  allowed 
the  taking  of  trout.  In  this  open  ground  Mrs. 
Floyd  could  easily  make  her  maiden  effort.  She 
seemed  a  good  deal  interested  in  the  prospective 
adventure,  and  plied  Collins  with  many  a  droll, 
oddly  phrased  question  as  he  fitted  up  for  her  use 
an  old  rod  —  so  light  that  even  her  slender  hand 
scarcely  felt  its  weight  —  and  repaired  its  tiny 
nickel  reel,  till  it  was  in  working  order. 

While  the  manufacturer  and  Tryphena  were 
chatting  about  the  fishing-tackle,  and  she  was 
helping  him  now  and  then,  by  holding  a  thread 

266 


THE  BBOUGHTOy   HOUSE.  267 

tight  while  he  knotted  it,  or  handing  him  his  pot 
of  glue,  Mr.  Floyd  sat  diligently  upon  his  painting- 
stool,  a  yard  or  two  away,  and  worked  on  at  his 
Venetian  girl.  A  few  lucky  hours  more  and  the 
picture  would  be  finished,  except  for  the  varnish 
ing  and  the  last  touches.  Floyd  had  fished  with 
Collins  several  times  that  summer,  and  was  fond 
enough  of  the  sport  to  listen  to  all  the  talk 
between  Tryphena  and  the  manufacturer,  and 
occasionally  to  put  in  a  word  of  his  own. 

John  Sonderby  was  the  only  one  of  the  four 
who  betrayed  110  particular  interest  in  trout  and 
the  expiration  of  the  time  allowed  by  the  game 
laws.  Nevertheless,  he  loitered  all  that  Monday 
afternoon  at  the  cottage,  stretched  out  in  the 
shade  of  the  trellis,  and  resting  on  his  elbow,  sunk 
deep  in  the  luxuriant  grass.  His  old  cap  was 
pulled  low  down  upon  his  forehead,  to  keep  the 
glare  out  of  his  eyes.  The  school-teacher  seemed 
to  have  plenty  of  time  at  his  disposal  and  made 
no  mention  of  any  work  at  the  laboratory.  Once 
when  Collins  looked  around  for  something  with 
which  to  hammer  a  bit  of  wire  straight,  Sonderby 
pulled  the  big  brass  key  of  the  academy  out  of  his 
pocket  and  tossed  it  toward  the  manufacturer,  as  if 
the  key  were  worth  as  much  for  a  hammer  as  for 
anything  else.  None  of  them  had  seen  anything 
of  Sonderby  during  the  morning,  except  for  a 
moment,  when  he  ran  down,  disorderly  dressed, 
from  his  room  at  the  hotel,  to  give  to  the  stage- 


268  THE  BROUGI1TON  HOUSE. 

driver  a  letter  for  Boston,  to  be  dropped  into  the 
mail-car  at  the  Center.  But  if  the  school-teacher's 
morning  had  been  somewhat  unsociable,  like  so 
many  of  his  mornings  latterly,  he  evidently  tried 
to  make  amends  for  it  in  the  course  of  the  after 
noon.  Not  a  word  said  by  any  of  the  three 
escaped  him ;  from  under  the  visor  of  his  cap  his 
eyes  watched  every  motion,  and  he  spoke,  when 
at  all,  with  a  promptness  and  decision  which  were 
in  curious  contrast  with  the  indolence  of  his 
attitude.  When  the  artist  laid  down  his  brushes 
about  half-past  four,  and  started  off  round  the 
corner  of  the  cottage,  Sonderby  apparently  dis 
concerted  him  a  little  by  asking  if  he  was  not 
going  to  the  post-office,  and  by  volunteering  to 
keep  him  company;  whereat  Floyd  explained 
that  he  was  only  going  to  Meyer's.  But  when 
Sonderby  said  that  he  was  going  to  the  office 
anyway,  and  would  bring  back  Floyd's  mail,  Floyd 
decided  that  he  might  as  well  go  himself,  after  all. 
It  was  rather  a  clever  piece  of  acting,  on  both 
sides,  and  Collins,  who  chose  to  be  secretly 
amused  at  Floyd's  changes  of  mind,  understood 
but  one-half  the  comedy.  For  John  Sonderby,  in 
his  blunt,  thorough  way,  was  "shadowing"  the 
artist. 

The  two  men  came  back  without  any  mail  ex 
cept  Collins's  Republican,  and  Sonderby,  resuming 
his  former  position,  tore  open  the  wrapper,  and 
read  slowly  to  Collins  the  scores  of  the  Saturday 


THE  BROVGHTON  HOUSE.  269 

ball  games,  printed  in  an  abridged  form  in  the 
Monday  issue.  Sunday  papers  had  not  yet  pene 
trated  so  far  as  Broughton.  Floyd  went  on  with 
his  work  rather  peevishly.  He  suspected  that 
Collins  would  laugh  at  him  that  night,  if  they  two 
slipped  off  by  themselves,  about  his  anxiety  for 
securing  his  own  mail,  and  he  wished  that  he  had 
not  told  Collins  so  much  about  his  plans,  though 
he  reflected,  with  some  dissatisfaction,  that  he 
had  only  a  vague  remembrance  of  the  extent  to 
which  he  had  confided  in  the  manufacturer. 

But  after  supper,  when  Floyd  invited  Collins  to 
take  a  stroll,  Sonderby  impolitely  proposed  to  ac 
company  them.  The  stroll  was  not  a  long  one. 
Collins  smoked  dispassionately,  Floyd  discontent 
edly,  Sonderby  not  at  all ;  but  to  make  up  for  it 
the  latter  carried  on  most  of  the  conversation. 
For  the  first  time  in  his  life,  he  was  measuring 
himself  against  another  man  —  perhaps  against 
two  men  —  in  cunning,  and  there  was  an  exhila 
ration  in  the  struggle.  When  they  reached  the 
cottage,  on  the  way  back,  Sonderby's  quick  eye 
detected  Mrs.  Floyd  sitting  alone,  in  the  window 
by  the  lilac  bushes.  She  had  not  lighted  a  lamp, 
though  it  was  fast  growing  dark. 

"  Floyd,"  said  Sonderby,  "you'd  better  invite 
us  in  to  play  whist.  There  is  too  much  of  a  crowd 
over  at  the  hotel." 

He  turned  up  the  path  without  waiting  for  an 
answer,  and  the  other  men  followed  him,  Collins 


270  THE  BROUGHTON   HOUSE. 

smiling  slightly,  all  to  himself.  He  had  formed 
a  theory  of  his  own  about  Soiiderby's  attitude 
toward  Tryphena,  and  was  partly  right,  as  a 
shrewd  worldling  is  apt  to  be,  and  partly  wrong, 
as  a  shrewd  worldling  is  sure  to  be.  Besides,  he 
knew  nothing  about  Sonderby's  stopping  to  rest 
against  the  east  pillar  of  the  Doric-fronted  acad 
emy,  some  twenty-four  hours  before. 

Mrs.  Floyd  brought  out  from  the  parlor  of  the 
cottage  —  a  room  never  used  nowadays — a  couple 
of  high,  queerly  modelled  brass  lamps,  and  the 
quartette  sat  down  to  play.  Sonderby  held  some 
remarkable  hands,  among  them  a  trump-sequence 
from  the  eight-spot  up,  and  he  and  Mrs.  Floyd 
increased  their  lead,  in  the  course  of  the  evening, 
by  more  than  thirty  points. 

The  sky  was  cloudless  on  Tuesday  morning,  and 
the  wind  straight  from  the  west.  But  there  was 
no  dew  on  the  grass,  and  the  air  was  singularly 
clear,  as  if  it  were  late  autumn.  The  summer 
boarders  at  the  Broughton  House  were  delighted 
by  the  change  from  the  close,  sticky  atmosphere 
which  the  dog-days  had  brought,  but  Bill  Trum- 
bull  remarked  sagaciously  that  it  was  a  "  weather- 
breeder."  In  the  course  of  the  forenoon  the  wind 
fell,  and  the  heat  increased.  Evans  gave  his  four 
"  regulars  "  an  early  dinner,  and  shortly  after  noon 
the  carryall  was  waiting  at  the  side  door  of  the 
hotel. 

Collins  had  planned  to  reach  the  head-waters  of 


THE  BROUGHTOX  HOUSE.  271 

the  Johnson  Brook  in  time  to  begin  fishing  by 
three  o'clock,  knowing  that  in  the  four  or  five 
hours  of  daylight  that  would  remain,  the  fishing 
would  probably  grow  steadily  better,  and  that  it 
would  be  lighter,  after  sunset,  down  in  the  open 
meadows  by  the  farm,  where  the  sport  would  close, 
than  it  could  possibly  be  up  in  the  w^oods.  Just 
as  Collins  had  helped  Mrs.  Floyd  into  the  front 
seat  of  the  carryall  —  which  was  to  be  drawn  this 
time  by  a  stout  black  farm-horse,  instead  of  the 
bay  mare  —  a  buggy  from  the  Center  was  pulled 
up  at  the  corner  of  the  hotel.  The  horse  was 
lathery  from  his  ten  miles  of  uphill  work,  and 
three  men  got  down  from  the  narrow  seat.  Col- 
lins's  face  fell  for  an  instant  as  he  recognized  them, 
but  a  sort  of  triumphant  twinkle  was  in  his  eyes. 
It  was  a  committee  of  the  striking  operatives  in 
the  Collins  Mills.  Advices  from  the  treasurer  of 
the  company  had  warned  Collins  that  the  strikers' 
funds  were  nearly  exhausted,  and  that  a  compro 
mise  could  probably  be  effected.  A  telephone  mes 
sage  that  morning  had  informed  him  that  he  might 
be  waited  on  by  a  committee,  since  he  had  sent 
word  that  he  could  not  leave  Broughton  at 
present. 

"  We'll  have  to  wait  a  minute,"  said  Collins  to 
his  friends,  and  handing  the  lines  to  Mrs.  Floyd 
he  stepped  forward  to  greet  the  newcomers. 

"Hullo,  George,"  he  said,  shaking  hands  with 
one  of  the  men,  who  had  grown  up  in  the  service 


272  THE  BROUGHTON  HOUSE. 

of  the  company,  and  had  played  ball  with  Collins 
many  a  season  in  the  old  Collins  Mills  team. 

"  How  d'ye  do,  Mr.  Collins  ?  "  was  the  respectful 
answer.  The  manufacturer  nodded  to  the  other 
two,  whom  he  did  not  know  so  well,  and  waited 
for  them  to  announce  their  errand. 

"  You  see,  Mr.  Collins,"  began  George,  the 
spokesman  of  the  party,  "we  thought  that  seeing 
you  couldn't  come  to  the  Mills  just  now,  we'd 
come  and  see  you." 

"That's  right,"  responded  Collins.  "Glad  to 
see  you." 

"  Can  we  have  a  bit  of  a  talk  ?  "  inquired  George, 
looking  around  uneasily  at  the  various  persons  who 
were  regarding  the  group. 

"  Well,  George,"  was  the  deliberate  reply,  "  I'm 
sorry  to  say  that  I  have  an  engagement  just  now, 
but  I  shall  be  back  by  and  by." 

However  strongly  Collins  might  have  set  his 
desires  on  the  fishing-party,  he  never  believed  in 
letting  his  pleasure  interfere  with  business ;  but 
this  time,  confident  that  he  could  dictate  his  own 
terms  to  the  strikers,  he  wanted  to  teach  them 
what  he  considered  a  lesson.  They  had  had  him 
under  the  hammer  long  enough.  They  were 
ready  to  come  to  terms  now ;  well,  he  would  show 
them  that  he  himself  was  not  over-anxious. 

"  About  what  time,  Mr.  Collins  ?  "  asked  George, 
taking  a  furtive  glance  at  his  shaky  Waterbury 
watch. 


THE  BBOUGHTON  HOUSE.  273 

"I  really  can't  say,"  replied  Collins,  with  an 
ugly  kind  of  carelessness.  There  was  for  him  a 
tyrannical  delight  in  the  situation.  Relaxing  a 
little,  he  turned  to  Eyans,  who  was  standing  near 
by,  on  the  piazza.  "  Eyans,  I  wish  you  would  giye 
these  gentlemen  some  dinner.  Do  as  well  by  them 
as  you  can.  Johnny,  take  that  horse  to  the  stable 
and  rub  him  down.''  Collins  was  a  generous  fel 
low,  when  it  did  not  derange  his  plans.  Then, 
with  a  not  unfriendly  nod  to  George,  and  a  "  See 
you  later,"  he  turned  to  the  carryall,  where  Floyd 
and  Sonderby  had  by  this  time  taken  their  places, 
and  jumping  in  he  took  the  reins  from  Mrs. 
Floyd,  and  the  quartette  started  on  their  excur 
sion. 

The  three  operatives  stood  upon  the  end  of  the 
piazza  and  watched  them  drive  by.  From  under 
the  back  seat  protruded  the  ends  of  the  fishing- 
rods.  One  of  the  committee  jogged  George  with 
his  elbow  and  pointed  to  them,  muttering : 

"  Engagement !  What  d'ye  think  of  that  for  an 
engagement?  Fishin'  engagement!" 

George's  only  answer  was  a  curse.  Collins's 
action  meant  a  day's  delay;  the  funds  of  the 
Woollen  Operatives"  Union  had  been  getting  lower 
and  lower,  and  were  now  quite  gone  ;  the  strikers' 
pride  had  gone  too,  and  they  wanted  bread  for 
their  wives  and  babies.  The  operatives  were  will 
ing  to  come  back  at  the  old  schedule  of  prices, 
rather  than  remain  out  longer.  Collins's  political 


274  THE  BROUGHTON  HOUSE. 

economy  was  victorious  :  it  had  taken  two  to  make 
a  bargain ;  and  now  he  had  driven  off  on  a  pleas 
ure  party  of  his  own,  leaving  the  committee  help 
lessly  there  on  the  Broughton  House  piazza,  as  if 
he  meant  to  enforce  a  lesson  that  was  already  plain 
enough. 

As  Collins  drove  up  Main  Street  past  the  parson 
age,  he  checked  the  carryall  suddenly  as  though 
an  idea  had  occurred  to  him,  but  after  a  moment's 
hesitation  he  chirped  to  the  horse  again,  and  turned 
him  into  the  road  to  East  Part. 

"  What  was  the  matter  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Floyd. 

"  Oh,  nothing,"  he  answered,  with  a  grim  smile  ; 
"  I  had  half  a  mind  for  a  minute  to  give  those 
fellows  a  letter  of  introduction  to  the  parson's 
wife.  She  likes  that  sort  of  thing, — strikes  — 
philanthropy  —  and  drain-pipes  —  likes  to  fool  with 
it.  But  I  guess  it  wouldn't  hardly  do.  Those 
fellows  might  destroy  my  reputation  with  the 
minister;  eh,  Floyd?" 

Floyd  made  some  humorous  reply,  and  the  strik 
ers'  committee  was  thenceforward  forgotten. 

The  road  to  East  Part,  which,  like  the  North 
Broughton  road,  came  into  the  village  street  close 
by  the  meeting-house,  had  once  been  the  most 
thickly  settled  highway  in  the  town.  For  a  mile 
or  more  after  leaving  the  meeting-house  the  farms 
were  still  well  kept  up.  But  gradually  the  soil 
grew  stonier,  the  hills  increased  in  height,  and 
unoccupied  houses  and  half-tumbled-down  barns 


THE  BROUGHTOX   HOUSE.  275 

began  to  come  in  sight  on  either  hand.  The  East 
Part  folks  had  had  the  Western  fever  back  in  1830, 
and  from  almost  every  farm  the  youngest  and  best 
had  emigrated  to  Ohio  and  settled  on  the  Western 
Reserve.  That  section  of  Broughton  township  had 
never  recovered  from  the  loss,  and  in  what  had 
once  been  the  village  of  East  Part  there  were  now 
but  half  a  dozen  houses,  a  churn  factory,  and  a 
dilapidated  Baptist  church,  never  used.  As  the 
carryall  rattled  along  past  the  decayed  settlement, 
and  a  few  old  men  and  women  stood  in  their  wood- 
house  doors  to  peer  at  the  conveyance,  the  forlorn- 
ness  of  the  place  set  Collins  into  some  vigorous 
talk  about  the  folly  of  going  West,  or  even  of 
drifting  cityward,  when  there  was  plenty  of  good 
land  all  through  Xew  England  to  be  had  for  a 
song.  Sonderby  joined  in  heartily.  He  admired, 
as  always,  Collins's  practical  common  sense,  and 
what  the  manufacturer  was  saying  chimed  com 
pletely  with  his  own  convictions.  But  the  ten 
minutes  of  conversation  about  the  decay  of  New 
England  was  the  only  serious  talk  there  was  upon 
the  drive,  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Floyd  took  no  part 
even  in  that.  By  instinct  all  these  four  people,  so 
singularly  thrown  together  for  a  summer,  chose 
desultory  themes  for  a  chance  sentence  or  two, 
avoiding  anything  that  might  signify  much  of  what 
was  in  their  hearts.  Each  man  had  plans  of  his 
own,  which  he  was  bent  on  keeping  secret  from 
the  others,  although  Floyd's  plans  were  now  for 


276  THE  EEOUGIITON  HOUSE. 

the  most  part  clear,  thanks  to  his  fondness  for  Col- 
lins's  society.  Tryphena  alone  of  the  quartette  had 
no  plans,  no  future ;  she  was  merely  waiting.  For 
such  a  person,  and  indeed  for  any  person,  what 
better  way  to  spend  the  time  than  in  brisk  driving 
along  a  country  road?  It  satisfies  the  eye  and 
gives  some  occupation  to  the  mind ;  it  may  even, 
under  the  proper  circumstances,  do  something  for 
the  heart. 

The  artist  eye  of  Tryphena's  husband  caught 
every  point  of  interest  in  the  landscape,  and,  being 
fond  of  monologue,  and  having  a  sort  of  knack  at 
describing  natural  objects,  Floyd  contributed  de 
cidedly  to  the  entertainment  of  the  party  during 
their  hot  drive  of  more  than  two  hours.  It  was 
he  who  explained  how  the  male  bobolinks  changed 
their  plumage  before  they  wandered  South;  how 
the  cicadas,  piping  shrilly  in  the  elms  in  the  pas 
tures,  had  come  up  out  of  the  ground  as  grubs, 
and  had  left  their  glistening  empty  skins,  split 
neatly  down  the  back,  upon  fences  and  tree-trunks  ; 
why  the  milkweed  pods  hung,  as  it  were,  upside 
down;  why  the  line  of  hills  they  saw  in  every 
direction  seemed  higher  than  a  photograph  would 
show  it,  and  lower  than  an  artist  must  draw  it; 
and  why  the  sky  was  always  of  a  paler  blue  at  the 
zenith :  common  enough  phenomena,  all  of  them, 
but  a  source  of  enthusiasm  to  the  tall,  vagabond- 
like  artist,  and  not  without  a  certain  attraction, 


THE  BEOUGHTOy   HOUSE.  277 

when  he  described  them,  even  to  persons  who  had 
a  thinly  veiled  contempt  for  the  describer. 

When  the  carryall  had  gotten  well  past  East 
Part,  a  pair  of  marsh  hawks  started  up  from  the 
meadow,  and  flew  persistently  along  in  advance  of 
the  quartette,  skimming  over  the  boggy  ground 
and  alighting  until  the  carriage  drew  near  again, 
when  they  would  take  wing  once  more.  Floyd 
was  in  rapture  over  them,  and  indeed  the  graceful, 
powerful-winged  creatures,  so  friendly,  yet  with 
such  instantaneous  possibilities  of  endless  flight, 
fascinated  the  other  occupants  of  the  carryall  as 
well,  though  none  of  them  felt  the  peculiar  anal 
ogy  w^hich  made  Floyd  happy  as  he  watched 
the  birds.  He  could  take  wing,  too,  presently! 
The  road  became  rougher  and  rougher,  now  climb 
ing  long,  stony  ascents,  broken  billow-like  by 
rounding  hillocks,  and  now  diving  steeply  down 
into  shady  ravines,  where  mountain  brooks  were 
brawling,  or  singing  quietly  to  themselves  in  the 
silence  of  the  afternoon.  There  were  long  spaces, 
too,  quite  in  the  woodland,  where  the  beech 
branches  met  over  the  roadway,  which  was  so  nar 
row  here  that  one  could  sit  in  the  carriage  and 

O 

pick  the  blackberries  from  the  sloping  bank  above 
the  road.  Collins  walked  the  horse  very  slowly 
through  the  woods,  and  none  of  the  four  were 
inclined  to  laugh  so  loudly  as  they  had  done  out 
in  the  dusty  sunshine.  More  than  once  they  were 
all  silent,  and  there  was  no  noise  except  the  crush 


278  THE  BEOUGIITON  HOUSE. 

of  the  wheels  into  the  black,  rich  earth,  and  the 
squeaking  of  the  whippletree.  Then  when  they 
got  out  into  the  sudden  glare  of  light,  and  Collins 
whipped  up  the  horse,  all  four  would  begin  sud 
denly  to  talk  and  laugh  about  nothing. 

From  the  top  of  a  hill,  where  they  paused  once 
to  admire  the  view,  caught  in  glimpses  through 
the  tangle  of  fox  grapes  overrunning  wild  cherry- 
trees,  they  could  see  the  smoke  that  hung  over  the 
Center.  So  marvellously  clear  was  the  atmosphere 
that  last  day  of  July,  that  Floyd  may  have  had 
reason  to  assert,  as  he  did  most  stoutly,  that  he 
could  see  the  telegraph-poles  running  over  a  bare 
hill  towards  the  Center,  though  the  hill  was  at 
least  seven  miles  away.  At  any  rate,  the  con 
centric  circles  of  hilltops  all  round  the  horizon 
seemed  to  stretch  out  further  than  ever  before, 
and  to  assume  more  subtle  gradations  of  deep- 
toned  blue,  until  it  grew  so  pure  and  delicate,  that 
Mrs.  Floyd  declared  the  color  to  be  just  that  of 
Aunt  Tryphena's  old  blue  china,  at  which  com 
parison  the  men  were  inclined  to  laugh,  though 
Floyd  supported  his  wife  with  more  approval  than 
he  commonly  exhibited.  While  they  were  looking 
off  toward  the  northeast,  Floyd  called  their  atten 
tion  to  what  seemed  a  thin,  white  mist  coming 
over  the  blue.  The  mist  thickened  to  a  line  of 
cloud,  and  almost  while  they  watched,  a  row  of 
pearl-white  shining  thunder-heads  silently  ranged 
themselves  along  the  horizon.  Collins  wiped  the 


THE  BROUGHTOy  HOUSE.  279 

perspiration  from  his  forehead,  and  wished  there 
were  a  little  wind. 

It  was  nearly  three  when  they  reached  a  long 
stretch  of  swampy  ground,  shut  in  on  three  sides 
by  abrupt,  closely  wooded  hills,  where  the  Johnson 
brook  had  its  source.  The  air  was  damp  and 
heavy,  here  in  the  swamp,  and  the  mosquitoes  were 
vicious.  The  wheels  sank  deep  into  the  rotten 
corduroy  road,  and  Collins  had  difficulty  in  keep 
ing  the  tired  horse  up  to  a  trot.  Finally  there 
was  a  slight  ascent,  and  the  alders  and  hackmatack 
gave  way  to  birches  and  hemlocks,  while  up 
through  the  woods  at  the  right  came  the  hollow 
sound  of  a  cascade. 

"All  right !  "  cried  Collins,  triumphantly.  " Here 
we  are  !  Just  on  schedule  time,  too." 

Jumping  out,  he  took  the  horse  by  the  head,  and 
forced  him  into  the  bushes  by  the  side  of  the  road, 
so  that  the  carryall  might  not  block  the  way  of 
any  chance  passing  team.  The  others  got  out  too, 
and  while  Collins  was  engaged  in  improvising  a 
hitching-rein  out  of  one  of  the  lines,  and  fastening 
the  steed  securely  to  a  birch  sapling,  he  kept  up 
a  running  explanation  of  the  topography  of  the 
neighborhood.  They  were  on  a  sort  of  watershed. 
The  Johnson  brook,  gathering  itself  slowly  from 
under  the  knotted  alder  roots,  flowed  sluggishly 
and  aimlessly  enough  until  it  crossed  the  road, 
near  where  the  carryall  stood.  Then  it  plunged 
downward  through  the  woods,  in  many  a  long  cas- 


280  THE  BROUGHTON  HOUSE. 

cade,  and  after  a  couple  of  miles  of  headlong 
tumbling  came  out  upon  the  broad  Johnson  mead 
ows.  Collins  proposed  that  one  of  the  three 
should  fish  down  through  the  woods.  He  himself 
would  try  the  swamp  for  an  hour,  and  the  third 
man,  by  walking  up  the  road  an  eighth  of  a  mile, 
would  strike  the  upper  branch  of  Bear  brook,  and 
could  fish  there  for  an  hour  or  so  likewise.  Floyd 
chose  the  Bear  brook,  leaving  to  Sonderby  the  woods. 
Collins  then  went  on  to  explain  that  after  an  hour, 
he  and  Floyd  would  meet  again  at  the  carryall, 
where  Mrs.  Floyd  could  in  the  meantime  wait,  and 
that  they  would  then  drive  down  around  a  spur  of 
mountain  and  reach  the  Johnson  farm.  There 
they  would  leave  the  horse,  and  fish  up  through 
the  meadows  till  they  met  Sonderby. 

The  plan,  which  Collins  had  evidently  thought 
out  with  some  care  before  leaving  the  Broughton 
House,  seemed  agreeable  to  everybody.  Floyd 
drew  on  a  pair  of  rubber  boots,  and  slinging  an  old 
fish-basket  of  Bill  Trumbull's  over  his  shoulder, 
tramped  off  up  the  road  toward  Bear  brook.  Col 
lins  and  Sonderby  lifted  the  front  seat  out  of  the 
carryall,  and  taking  it  to  a  shady  spot  on  the  road 
side,  arranged  a  comfortable  place  for  Mrs.  Floyd. 
She  declared  that  she  was  not  at  all  afraid  to  wait 
alone,  and  would  amuse  herself  by  looking  for 
blackberries,  if  she  got  tired  of  sitting  still.  Son 
derby  took  off  his  coat  and  flung  it  over  the  back 
of  the  seat,  saying  that  he  would  be  more  com- 


THE  BROUGHTON  HOUSE.  281 

fortable  without  it,  and  that  it  might  make  the  iron 
back  a  trifle  softer.  Then  the  men  bade  her  good 
by,  and  walking  back  a  few  rods  over  the  road 
which  they  had  come,  separated:  Collins,  with  a 
disgusted  look  at  the  crowds  of  mosquitoes  around 
his  head,  pushing  his  way  skilfully  through  the 
bushes  on  the  edge  of  the  swamp ;  and  Sonderby 
striking  straight  down  through  the  woods  toward 
the  cascades. 

The  mountain  side  was  precipitous,  and  the 
school-teacher  slipped  every  few  steps  upon  the 
rotten  leaves  that  slid  away  under  his  feet  and 
left  the  stony  ledges  bare.  But  he  was  a  fair 
woodsman,  and  by  dint  of  swinging  himself  along 
from  sapling  to  sapling,  he  descended  rapidly, 
despite  his  awkward  fishing-boots,  and  the  bor 
rowed  rod,  which  he  was  forced  to  carry  carefully. 
It  was  perfectly  still  in  the  woods,  except  for  one 
or  two  scurrying  chipmunks,  and  not  a  breath  of 
air  was  stirring.  Sonderby  was  hot  and  breathing 
hard  when  he  reached  the  upper  cascade,  and 
paused  a  moment  to  watch  the  stream  take  its 
arching  leap.  Here  the  vibration  of  the  shock  of 
falling  water  made  a  sort  of  breeze  that  shook  the 
leaves  of  the  cushion-berry  and  the  maidenhair 
ferns  along  the  channelled  rocks,  and  the  air  was 
deliciously  cool  from  the  spray.  The  school 
teacher  worked  his  way  downward,  over  the  wet 
rocks,  till  he  stood  at  the  bottom  of  the  cascade, 
where  the  water  struck  unevenly  against  a  quartz- 


282  THE  BEOUGHTON  HOUSE. 

ite  shelf,  and  whirled  on  again  into  an  oval  pot 
hole,  four  or  five  feet  deep.  Sonderby  dabbled  his 
fingers  in  it,  disregarding  the  drenching  spray  that 
was  falling  around  him,  and  was  mightily  tempted 
to  strip  off  his  clothes  and  take  a  plunge.  But  he 
gave  up  the  idea  as  unworthy  a  fisherman  in  the 
first  quarter  of  an  hour  of  possible  sport,  and  kept 
on  down  the  shelving  ledges  where  the  moss  grew 
so  thick  that  the  water  swept  over  them  almost 
silently,  leaving  shining  bubbles  in  the  moss  along 
the  under  edge  of  each  brink.  The  lower  cas 
cades  were  not  so  fine  as  the  upper,  being  scarcely 
more  than  a  succession  of  short  plunges  down  a 
long,  irregular  incline,  at  the  foot  of  which,  Collins 
had  said,  the  fishing  began. 

Sonderby  got  down  to  within  a  few  yards  of  the 
bottom,  and  then  reflected  that  he  would  better 
put  his  rod  together,  as  at  the  bottom  of  the  last 
cascade  there  would  probably  be  trout  that  had 
run  up  stream  as  far  as  possible.  He  drew  the 
rod  from  its  case,  and  reached  for  the  side-pocket 
where  he  had  put  line,  reel,  and  bait-box.  Con 
found  it!  He  had  left  his  coat  on  the  carriage 
seat.  Why  had  he  not  been  bright  enough  to  take 
those  things  from  his  pocket  when  he  spread  out 
his  old  coat  for  Mrs.  Floyd  to  lean  against? 

Well,  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  go  back. 
Slipping  the  rod  out  of  sight  under  a  rotting  log, 
and  taking  a  single  glance  at  the  chain  of  pools 
below  him,  over  whose  surfaces  the  midges  were 


THE  BROUGHTON  HOUSE.  283 

dancing  and  in  whose  depths,  no  doubt,  the  trout 
were  lurking,  Sonderby  turned  on  his  heel  and 
started  back  on  his  stiff,  upward  climb.  Bent 
almost  on  all  fours,  he  clambered  rapidly  over  the 
rocks  by  the  lower  cascade,  and  did  not  pause  till 
he  stood  panting  at  the  foot  of  the  upper  one, 
where  he  had  Avaited  an  instant  in  coming  down. 
The  heat  seemed  to  grow  more  oppressive  every 
moment.  Dropping  his  cap  at  the  edge  of  the 
stream,  and  putting  one  knee  on  it  to  avoid  wet 
ting  his  trousers,  he  flung  his  weight  forward  on 
his  hands,  and  stretched  out  to  drink,  swallowing 
the  water  in  big  gulps.  He  straightened  up  on 
one  knee  again,  with  a  long,  satisfied  breath, 
and  dashed  away  with  his  hand  the  drops  that 
were  falling  from  his  brown  beard.  Then  his  brow 
contracted,  his  hand  fell,  and  his  eyes  looked 
vacantly  into  the  water. 

Ah,  sure  enough  !  She  would  be  there.  She 
would  be  there  all  alone.  It  was  so  long  since  he 
had  seen  her  alone,  since  he  had  had  any  real 
words  with  her;  never,  in  fact,  since  that  Sunday 
morning  when  they  had  been  together  in  the  sit 
ting-room  of  the  cottage.  He  had  tried  to  avoid 
her,  to  keep  down  by  dint  of  furious  mental  and 
bodily  work  his  wild  thoughts  about  her.  Almost 
he  had  succeeded;  then  came  the  disclosure  he 
had  overheard  at  the  academy,  and  for  the  first 
time  he  knew  the  truth  about  her  trouble.  His 
choice,  then,  had  been  instant :  he  had  given  up 


284  THE  BEOUGHTON  HOUSE.  f 

his  prospects  in  Boston,  he  had  given  up  trying 
to  keep  her  out  of  his  mind.  He  had  devoted 
himself  to  her,  scarcely  knowing  what  he  was 
doing,  or  what  would  probably  come  of  it  all  — 
disregarding  the  right  and  wrong  of  the  matter, 
if  indeed  there  were  any  such  things  in  the  con 
fusing  tangle —  resolved  only  to  stay  in  B rough- 
ton  by  her  side,  to  watch  her  husband  like  a  hawk, 
and  to  show  her,  when  the  time  came,  that  she  might 
call  on  him  for  anything,  anything.  He  had  spent 
all  Monday  as  near  her  as  he  could ;  nothing  but 
accident  had  separated  them  this  afternoon,  and 
now  accident  was  bringing  him  back  up  through 
the  woods  to  the  lonely  road  where  she  was  wait 
ing.  He  would  find  her  sitting  on  the  carriage 
seat  which  he  had  helped  place  for  her,  and  lean 
ing  back  against  his  own  old  coat.  It  was  acci 
dent  ;  but  it  seemed  like  fate. 

Sonderby  rose  to  his  feet,  knocked  the  wet  sand 
off  from  his  cap  mechanically,  and  started  for  the 
top  of  the  gorge.  What  should  he  say  to  her? 
"  I  have  left  my  line  and  reel  in  my  coat  and  had 
to  come  back  for  them.  Good  by  again."  Was 
that  all? 

Was  that  all,  when  he  might  not  have  another 
chance  to  tell  her  that  he  knew  Floyd's  cowardly 
plans,  that  he  would  do  anything,  everything,  she 
wished  —  that  his  future  was  nothing  to  him,  — 
that  —  no  !  it  was  not  all,  and  it  would  not  be  all ! 
A  few  minutes  would  bring  him  to  the  road ;  and 


THE  BEOUGHTOS  HOUSE.  285 

he  swung  himself  up  from  tree  to  tree  with  power 
ful  pulls,  ascending  in  swift,  zigzag  lines.  But 
how  hot  it  was !  There  was  not  air  enough  to 
breathe,  and  his  heart  thumped  as  if  he  were 
suffocating.  The  light  of  the  clearing  was  just 
ahead  of  him ;  now  he  climbed  up  the  last  ledge 
of  leaf-drifted  rock,  and  pushed  his  way  into  the 
alders  that  fringed  the  roadside.  There  was  an 
other  sound  beside  the  pounding  of  his  heart,  and 
he  stopped  to  listen.  From  behind  rose  the  deep, 
trembling  vibrations  of  the  cascade ;  from  the 
roadside  by  the  carryall  came  the  resonant  mur 
mur  of  a  voice.  He  stepped  out  on  to  the  road. 

Aye,  she  was  there.  She  sat  on  the  carriage 
seat,  leaning  forward,  poking  at  the  ground  with 
the  tip  of  her  sunshade ;  and  sitting  beside  her, 
his  right  arm  resting  on  the  back  of  the  seat  so 
that  it  must  have  touched  her,  his  dark,  eager 
face  turned  as  if  in  hope  to  catch  her  eyes  at 
some  word  of  that  which  he  was  rapidly  saying, 
was  Bruce  D.  Collins. 

Poor  John  Sonderby !  For  a  few  long  seconds 
he  stood  quiet,  so  helpless  did  that  great  surprise 
make  him.  Then  he  coughed  awkwardly  and  came 
up  the  road,  his  eyes  riveted  on  Collins.  The  lat- 
ter's  right  hand  changed  position  quick  as  light 
ning  ;  then  he  rose  deliberately  with  a  cool 
"  Hullo/' 

"  Hullo  !  "  Sonderby  responded,  and  paused  in 
embarrassment. 


286  THE  BEOUGHTON  HOUSE. 

Mrs.  Floyd  said  nothing,  and  seemed  to  be 
looking  at  the  ground,  as  before. 

"  Did  you  get  sick  of  fishing,  so  soon  ?  "  inquired 
Collins. 

"  I  forgot  my  line  and  bait,  and  had  to  come 
back  for  them." 

"  Oh,  well,  you  always  need  a  line  for  fishing, 
Sonderby.  You'll  learn  after  a  while."  But  the 
school-teacher  did  not  smile  at  the  mild  sarcasm ; 
he  stood  planted  firmly  before  Collins,  with  an 
ugly  look  in  his  blue  eyes. 

"  The  mosquitoes  drove  me  out  of  the  swamp," 
continued  Collins,  stretching  himself  carelessly, 
"  and  I've  come  back  for  a  pair  of  gloves."  He 
sauntered  over  to  the  carryall,  and  after  some 
fumbling  under  the  remaining  seat,  returned  with 
the  gloves  in  his  hand.  He  did  it  very  well,  but 
unfortunately  for  the  impression  which  he  sought 
to  produce,  Sonderby  had  seen  him  place  the 
gloves  in  a  pocket  of  his  fishing-jacket  w^hen  he 
started  into  the  swamp  a  half-hour  before.  Collins 
had  lied.  He  drew  on  the  gloves  and  buttoned 
them. 

"  Well  ?  "  said  he.  He  felt  that  Sonderby's  eye 
was  measuring  him,  as  a  boxer  measures  for  a 
blow. 

"  Where  is  your  line  ?  "  Collins  continued,  rather 
more  hastily. 

"I  guess  your  things  are  here,"  spoke  up  Mrs. 
Floyd  for  the  first  time.  She  held  out  the  coat, 


THE  BROUGHTOX  HOUSE.  287 

and  Sonderby  forgot  his  impulse  to  knock  Collins 
down,  and  turning  to  Tiyphena  took  it  from 
her  hand.  With  bungling  fingers  he  got  the 
desired  articles  from  the  side-pocket  and  dropped 
the  coat  upon  the  seat  again. 

"I'm  real  sorry  you  had  the  walk  all  for  nothing," 
said  Mrs.  Floyd,  compassionately.  "  Is  it  dreadful 
hot  in  the  woods  ? " 

"  Rather,"  answered  Sonderby,  drily.  Another 
awkward  silence  followed. 

"  I  guess  likely  we'll  have  a  shower  by  and  by," 
hazarded  Mrs.  Floyd,  still  poking  the*  black  earth 
with  the  tip  of  her  sunshade,  and  not  glancing  at 
Sonderby  as  she  spoke. 

"  I  shouldn't  wonder." 

"Well,  here  goes  for  the  mosquitoes  again,"  inter 
rupted  Collins,  moving  awa}*.  He  made  an  upward 
motion  of  his  hand,  a  sort  of  parting  gesture, 
toward  Mrs.  Floyd ;  and  she  waved  the  sunshade 
slightly,  in  dumb  rejoinder.  That  was  enough  for 
John  Sonderby.  It  was  no  place  for  him. 

"  I'm  off,  too,"  he  said  huskily,  and  turning 
sharply,  crushed  his  way  through  the  bushes,  and 
plunged  down  through  the  woods.  Poor  fellow  ! 
he  had  idealized  her. 

Down  the  gorge  he  stumbled,  heedless  of  his 
footing,  till  he  stood  again  at  the  bottom  of  the 
upper  cascade.  He  had  scarcely  been  gone  a 
quarter  of  an  hour.  All  was  unchanged  there; 
the  water  was  beginning  to  ooze  through  into  the 


288  THE  BROUGHTON  HOUSE. 

hollow  his  knee  had  pressed  in  the  sand ;  the  water- 
spiders  were  skimming  over  the  margin  of  the 
pool,  just  as  he  had  left  them.  But  in  himself 
something  was  broken.  The  fantastic  devotion, 
the  reckless  desire  to  let  her  know  what  was  in  his 
heart  and  to  let  her  do  with  him  as  she  would, 
was  gone.  She  was  not  worthy  of  the  devotion, 
and  the  desire  had  perished  utterly  at  the  sight  of 
Collins's  face.  If  she  wished  to  have  Collins  near 
her,  —  as  near  her  as  that,  —  very  well.  Sonderby's 
pride  in  himself,  in  his  power  of  influence  over  her, 
his  belief  in  his  own  analysis  of  her  character,  was 
swept  away.  A  dull  shame  had  taken  its  place  — 
shame  at  the  unacknowledged  amorous  longing 
that  had  mixed  itself  with  his  unselfish  pity  for 
her,  shame  at  her  weakness  and  folly  in  allowing 
Collins's  attentions.  A  crowd  of  black  suspicions 
jostled  against  each  other :  he  remembered  Floyd's 
innuendoes  against  the  manufacturer  in  the  barber's 
shop ;  the  start  for  the  Sunday  afternoon  drive ; 
the  feigned  tone  of  Collins  when  Floyd  was  boozily 
confidential  on  the  academy  porch ;  this  very  fishing 
excursion  itself,  so  carefully  planned.  It  all  seemed 
drearily  clear :  Collins  had  been  playing  with  his 
friends  of  the  Broughton  House  as  if  they  were 
pieces  on  a  chessboard.  But  to  honest  John  Son- 
derby,  the  worst  of  it  was  that  Tryphena  Floyd 
seemed  light  weight ;  not  wicked  indeed,  but  simply 
light  weight. 

Minute   after  minute  he  stood  there,  with  the 


THE  BROUGHTOS   HOUSE.  289 

deep  silence  of  the  woods  all  around  him,  the  fine 
spray  from  the  waterfall  wetting  his  shoulders. 
Then  he  turned  and  kept  on  his  way  down  stream, 
moving  like  a  man  who  has  risen  from  a  sick-bed. 
The  lust  of  the  eye  and  the  pride  of  life  had  left 
him.  It  was  over ;  all  that  had  so  strongly  stirred 
him,  during  these  bygone  weeks.  It  would  not 
have  been  worth  while,  if  he  had  known. 

On  getting  down  to  the  foot  of  the  lower  cas 
cade  he  found  his  rod,  and  adjusted  his  line  and 
reel.  Why  not  ?  One  might  as  well  fish  as  do 
anything  else.  One  thing  was  as  good  as  another. 
The  trout  ran  up  into  the  woods  that  July  in 
unusual  numbers,  and  they  leaped  at  the  worms 
on  Sonderby's  hook  more  eagerly  than  they  would 
have  done  at  the  most  skilfully  thrown  fly.  But 
he  took  no  pains  to  fish  carefully,  nor  did  the  sport 
rouse  any  zest  in  him.  If  he  hooked  them,  well 
and  good ;  if  he  failed,  it  was  just  as  well.  In  vain 
did  the  strong-backed,  orange-bellied  trout  dart  out 
from  along  the  sunken  logs,  snapping  at  his  hook : 
no  sparkle  of  enthusiasm  came  into  the  dull  eyes 
of  the  school-teacher.  He  fished  on  heedlessly, 
standing  half  knee-deep  in  the  foaming  water,  and 
letting  part  of  the  time  the  eddies  play  with  his 
bait  and  suck  it  down  into  their  white  depths,  for 
getting  even  that  he  was  fishing.  The  farther  he 
went  down  stream,  the  quieter  grew  the  water, 
until  it  lay  mostly  in  long  shallow  pools  shut  in 
bv  underbrush.  At  the  head  of  each  one  he 


290  THE  BBOUGHTON  HOUSE. 

would  usually  take  a  trout,  and  dropping  it  into 
the  basket  would  splash  on  without  caring  to  try 
for  another,  and  then  he  would  repeat  the  process 
at  the  next  pool  below.  An  hour  thus  passed.  He 
did  not  notice  that  the  woods  were  darkened  by 
an  increasing  shadow,  until  he  looked  up  on  reach 
ing  a  tiny  clearing,  and  observed  that  the  north, 
grown  full  of  blue-black  thunder  clouds,  was  top 
pling  them  over  upon  the  west,  so  that  there  came 
no  longer  any  direct  sunlight,  but  simply  a  daz- 
zlingly  bright  reflection  from  the  livid  edge  of  the 
northern  clouds.  He  saw  that  there  would  be  a 
thunder  storm,  and  then  the  fact  went  out  of  his 
mind  under  the  benumbing  pressure  of  that  greater 
fact,  and  he  strode  wearily  on  into  the  woods.  By 
and  by  it  grew  almost  as  dark  as  evening  there  in 
the  shadow  of  the  thick  underbrush,  along  the 
sleeping  water,  but  the  trout  leaped  faster  and 
faster,  and  Sonderby's  basket  was  growing  half 
full.  As  he  climbed  over  the  stump  fence  into 
the  meadow,  the  first  crash  of  thunder  pealed  from 
the  northwest.  Overhead  there  was  only  a  patch 
of  blue,  and  on  this  the  round-edged  clouds  were 
mounting  and  closing  in.  A  strong  wind  rose  and 
sank,  leaving  a  calm  more  oppressive  than  before. 
The  others  would  probably  get  wet,  Sonderby 
thought,  putting  on  a  fresh  worm  for  the  first  of 
the  meadow  reaches. 

"  The   others ! "  two  hours  ago  it  would  have 
been    "  she    will    probably    get    wet "  —  now    it 


THE  BROUGHTON  HOUSE.  291 

was  "  the  others  "  :  —  she  was  one  of  the  rest : 
they  went  naturally  together.  Sonclerby  scarcely 
glanced  away  from  his  hook  as  the  first  drops  of 
rain  fell,  and  the  wind  began  to  stir  again.  He 
turned  up  the  collar  of  his  flannel  shirt  around  his 
throat,  remembering  obscurely,  as  he  did  so,  that 
he  had  flung  his  coat  down  on  the  carriage  seat,  up 
there  at  the  top  of  the  gorge,  and  wondering  what 
had  become  of  it  now.  Thicker  and  heavier  came 
the  thunder  crashes,  and  the  rain-drifts  began  to 
march  like  swift-sweeping  upright  files  of  spear 
men  across  the  wide  Johnson  meadows.  Then  all 
grew  gray ;  the  farm  buildings  were  lost  to  sight, 
great  sheets  of  water  streamed  through  the  gloomy 
air,  and  a  gale  blew  that  whitened  the  willow-trees 
along  the  brook,  flattened  the  blue  iris  flowers,  and 
strewed  the  air  with  broken,  flying  leaves  from  the 
woodland.  Sonderby  could  no  longer  see  his  line  ; 
he  could  scarcely  keep  his  balance  against  the 
furious  pushings  of  the  wind,  and  the  gusts  of 
driving  rain.  He  unjointed  his  rod  deliberately, 
put  the  reel  on  top  of  his  trout  in  the  basket, 
tossed  the  contents  of  his  bait-box  into  the  brook, 
and  tramped  across  the  meadow  in  the  direction  of 
Calvin  Johnson's.  He  was  wet  to  the  skin  already, 
and  the  hail  was  beginning  to  sting  his  cheeks  and 
forehead.  But  he  was  thinking  of  the  idle  sum 
mer  ;  the  vague,  self-deceptive  dreams ;  the  useless 
and  unwished  sacrifice. 

Rufus  Johnson,  standing  in  the  wagon-shed  to 


292  THE  BEOUGHTON  HOUSE. 

watch  the  storm,  caught  sight  of  the  stooping  fig 
ure  of  the  school-teacher,  as  it  struggled  forward 
toward  the  shelter,  and  recognized  it. 

"  Hullo,  Mr.  Sonderby  !  "  he  shouted.  "  What, 
the  land  sakes  !  Did  ye  git  ketched  in  the  rain?  " 

"  Hullo,  Rufus ! "  was  the  quiet  reply,  as  the 
school-teacher  entered  and  put  his  wet  hand  into 
the  calloused  grip  of  the  young  farmer. 

"  Yes,  I'm  some  wet,  but  it's  no  matter.  Have 
you  any  hay  out  ?  " 

Rufus  was  leaning  on  a  pitchfork.  "  No,  by 
Johnny  ! "  he  exclaimed,  gratefully.  "  I  pitched 
the  last  forkful  over  the  great-beam  just  as  that 
first  clap  came.  'Twas  a  big  one,  wa'n't  it  ?  Must 
'a  struck  dost." 

"I  don't  remember,"  answered  Sonderby,  squeez 
ing  the  water  out  of  his  clothes.  "  Have  they 
come  yet? " 

"Who?"  said  Rufus. 

"  Mr.  Collins.  At  the  hotel,  you  know.  They 
were  going  to  drive  around  here  and  fish  up 
through  the  meadow." 

"  Were,  eh  ?  No,  we  ain't  seen  nothin'  of  'em 
here.  Won't  ye  come  into  the  kitchen,  'n  git  dry? 
'Twon't  hold  up  yet  awhile,  t'ain't  likely." 

But  just  as  Sonderby  had  been  given  a  seat  by 
the  kitchen  fire,  where  the  boarders'  supper  was 
preparing,  there  was  a  noise  of  wheels  outside,  and 
Collins  called  out,  "  Whoa  !  " 


THE  BROUGHTON  HOUSE.  293 

"  Drive  right  under  the  shed,*'  shouted  Rufus, 
running  to  the  door.     4i  Right  in  there  !  " 

Sonderby  stood  in  the  kitchen  doorway,  and  saw 
Floyd's  tall  form  squirm  out  of  the  back  seat  of  the 
carryall,  followed  by  Tryphena,  who  was  laughing 
vociferously.  Collins  was  tying  the  horse.  In  a 
moment  the  three  started  for  the  kitchen,  at  the 
invitation  of  Rufus,  who  addressed  Mrs.  Floyd  as 
"  Phenie."  She  was  the  first  to  enter  the  kitchen, 
and  paused  in  mock  dismay,  when  scarcely  over 
the  threshold,  to  see  the  puddle  that  was  already 
running  from  her  clothes.  Her  thin  dress  clung 
to  her.  She  was  shivering,  but  was  in  the  gayest 
spirits,  and  joked  incessantly  as  they  all  crowded 
up  to  the  stove.  Mrs.  Calvin  Johnson  emerged 
from  the  pantry,  where  she  had  been  making- 
pies,  and  bustled  around  with  a  shower  of  hos 
pitable  ejaculations  :  4*  Land  sakes  !  Glad  to  see 
you.  Don't  say!  Wet?  Of  course  you  be. 
Draw  right  up  to  the  fire,  sir.  Make  yourself  to 
home."  Then,  in  motherly  solicitude  at  Try- 
phena's  drenched  clothing,  she  carried  her  off 
into  her  own  bedroom,  which  opened  out  of  the 
kitchen.  A  few  minutes  later  Tryphena  reap 
peared,  attired  in  an  old  calico  gown  of  the 
farmer's  wife.  Mrs.  Johnson  was  a  woman  far 
from  slender,  and  Tryphena  had  been  obliged  to 
gather  the  gown  in  at  the  waist  and  to  turn  it  up 
at  the  sleeves.  She  looked  like  a  mischievous  child 
masquerading.  She  talked  with  everybody  at  once, 


294  THE  BEOUGHTON   HOUSE. 

danced  around  the  stove,  pretended  to  quarrel 
with  Collins  for  the  best  place  by  the  oven,  and 
even  won  Mrs.  Johnson,  who  had  never  quite 
liked  her,  into  avowing  mentally  that  "  Phenie 
was  getting  to  be  quite  like  folks."  Mrs.  John 
son  relished  the  free  way  in  which  the  young 
woman  ordered  around  her  masculine  associates. 
When  down  Mrs.  Floyd's  flushed  cheeks  the  rain 
drops  kept  trickling  from  her  wet  hair,  she  put  her 
hands  to  her  head  in  pretty  vexatiousness,  and 
after  a  hesitating  glance  at  the  men,  shook  her 
hair  loose.  It  uncoiled  in  dark,  shining  masses, 
and  slid  down  over  her  shoulders,  and  wringing 
it  dry,  she  twisted  it  into  a  low  knot  behind.  The 
sleeves  of  the  calico  gown  were  still  too  long, 
bothering  her  as  she  tried  to  warm  her  hands  over 
the  fire,  so  she  pushed  them  up  above  her  elbows, 
and  stretched  out  her  bare,  white  arms  eagerly  to 
the  warmth.  Opposite  her  stood  John  Soiiderby 
and  Rufus  Johnson. 

Mrs.  Johnson  went  off  into  renewed  explosions 
of  appreciative  laughter  over  these  evidences  that 
Phenie  was  "  making  herself  to  home."  The  stout 
farmer's  wife  had  had  nothing  but  the  vagaries  of 
3ier  summer  boarders  with  which  to  amuse  herself 
for  several  months  past.  More  and  more  irrepres 
sible  grew  Tryphena's  hysterical  exuberance,  while 
Floyd  growled  at  the  weather,  and  Collins  turned 
over  Sonderby's  basket  of  trout,  surprised  that 
there  were  so  many  there.  As  for  John  Sonderby, 


THE  BHOUGHTON  HOUSE.  295 

he  gazed  stupidly  at  the  group  around  him,  finding 
himself  for  the  first  time  afraid  of  Mrs.  Floyd, 
and  shrinking  from  her  merriment  as  from  some 
thing  unnatural.  The  whole  noisy  whirl  there 
was  meaningless  to  him,  an  indifferent  matter. 
Rufus  Johnson,  standing  by  the  school-teacher's 
side,  watched  Tryphena  with  e}~es  as  undemonstra 
tive  as  those  of  his  own  oxen,  but  he  was  thinking 
of  the  gay  outbursts  Phenie  Morton  used  to  break 
into,  on  a  straw  ride  or  at  a  husking  frolic,  long 
before  she  ever  went  to  Brooklyn,  and  how  like 
her  girlish  self  she  was  now,  yet  somehow  differ 
ent,  "sort  o'  different/' 

After  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  when  the  heat  of 
the  split  hickoiy  which  Mrs.  Johnson  had  crammed 
into  the  stove  had,  in  some  measure,  dried  the  ap 
parel  of  the  visitors,  there  was  talk  of  driving 
home.  The  rain  had  broken  away.  Xo  one  pro 
posed  anj-  more  fishing  that  evening.  Mrs.  Floyd's 
spirits  were  ebbing  now,  moment  by  moment.  She 
was  shivering  again,  and  her  fit  of  laughter  left  a 
sort  of  moodiness  behind  it.  She  said  she  did  not 
want  to  go  home ;  she  would  rather  stay  all  night, 
just  as  Mrs.  Johnson  had  hospitably  proposed. 
Floyd  gave  vent  to  an  impatient  exclamation,  and 
she  yielded.  While  Collins  and  Rufus  Johnson 
backed  the  horse  out  from  the  shed,  and  sopped 
up  the  water  standing  in  the  bottom  of  the  carry 
all,  Calvin  Johnson  himself,  a  fine-looking  man  of 
sixty,  drove  into  the  yard,  behind  the  iron-gray 


296  THE  BROUGHTON  HOUSE. 

horses.  He  had  been  under  some  trees  in  the 
worst  of  the  storm,  and  thought  lightly  of  the 
wetting  he  had  received.  He  told  Collins  that 
the  roads  would  be  badly  washed,  and  tried,  as  his 
wife  had  done,  to  get  the  party  to  spend  the  night 
at  the  farmhouse.  Mrs.  Johnson,  thus  supported, 
began  her  urgings  once  more,  and  the  whole  dis 
cussion  recommenced.  But  Tryphena  cut  it  short 
by  climbing  into  the  carryall. 

"  Ain't  ye  rather  hasty,  Phenie  ?  "  Calvin  John 
son  asked,  good-naturedly.  Unlike  his  wife,  he 
had  always  fancied  Phenie  Morton. 

"  No,  I  guess  not,"  she  answered.  "  You  know 
I  belong  in  town  now,  along  with  the  hotel  folks. 
Don't  you  see  that  this  is  the  Broughton  House 
carriage  ?  " 

Calvin  Johnson  and  his  wife  laughed  more  than 
this  remark  in  itself  would  warrant,  for  they  felt 
she  had  meant  to  be  jocose.  Floyd  was  the  only 
one  who  noticed  the  mockery  in  her  tone,  and  it 
displeased  him.  He  climbed  into  the  carryall,  too. 

"  Come  on,  Collins  !  "  he  cried.  "  We've  got  to 
get  home  before  dark.  Come  on,  Sonderby  !  " 

Mrs.  Floyd's  teeth  were  chattering  when  she 
said  "  Good  by,"  and  as  the  horse  turned,  Rufus 
Johnson  called  out,  "  Hold  on  !  "  He  went  under 
the  shed  and  returned  with  an  old  buffalo  robe. 

"  I'm  afraid  you've  ketched  your  death  o'  cold, 
Phenie,"  he  said  gravely,  and  wrapped  the  buffalo 
robe  closely  around  her. 


XIV. 

THE  three  members  of  the  strikers'  committee, 
who  were  left  unceremoniously  upon  the  Brough- 
ton  House  piazza  to  await  the  pleasure  of  Mr.  Col 
lins,  had  no  reason  to  complain  of  the  treatment 
they  received  during  the  manufacturer's  absence. 
They  were  clothed  in  their  Sunday  best,  and  Evans 
deemed  them  respectable  enough  to  take  the  places 
of  his  "  regulars "  at  the  end  of  the  first  dining- 
table.  After  a  much  better  dinner  than  they  were 
in  the  habit  of  getting  at  Collins  Mills  Junction, 
they  drifted  into  the  office,  and  were  there  cor 
dially  entertained  by  Bill  Trumbull.  Bill  had  heard 
some  particulars  about  the  strike,  early  in  the  sea 
son,  from  the  lips  of  Collins,  and  from  time  to  time 
since  then  he  had  noticed  a  few  lines  about  the 
situation  at  the  Collins  Mills  on  the  local  page  of 
the  Republican.  He  easily  guessed,  therefore,  the 
nature  of  the  committee's  errand,  and  the  answers 
of  the  men  to  his  adroit  indirect  questions  satisfied 
him  that  he  was  correct.  Little  inclined  as  they 
were  to  talk  business  with  a  stranger,  there  had 
been  so  much  talking  at  Collins  Mills  Junction 
that  summer  that  they  all  had  caught  the  infection 
of  the  habit,  and  not  one  of  them  —  even  George, 

297 


298  THE  EEOUGHTON  HOUSE. 

the  clearest-headed  but  least  open  of  the  three  — 
could  keep  a  quiet  tongue  in  his  head  under  the 
irresistible  attraction  of  Bill  Trumbull's  willing 
ness  to  hear.  But  Bill  was  by  no  means  in  a  hurry- 
to  make  sure  of  the  facts  relating  to  the  great 
strike ;  on  the  contrary,  his  manner  was  that  of  a 
person  who  had  the  whole  afternoon  at  his  disposal 
and  was  confident  of  securing  his  game  whenever 
he  wished.  He  told  them  his  best  stories,  cross- 
examined  them  about  the  livery  stable  in  the  Cen 
ter  where  they  had  hired  their  horse,  exalted  Col- 
lins's  prowess  as  a  fisherman.  From  a  discussion 
of  Collins  as  a  sportsman  it  was  not  difficult  to 
pass  to  the  more  practical  subject  of  Collins  as  an 
employer  of  labor,  and  finally,  in  a  private  and 
more  confidential  fashion,  —  though  there  was  no 
one  in  the  Broughton  House  office  to  overhear 
them,  —  to  the  interesting  and  ultimate  question 
of  Collins's  character  "  as  a  feller."  Upon  this 
point  the  members  of  the  committee  were  not 
entirely  agreed,  but  there  was  sufficient  consensus 
of  opinion  to  make  Bill  Trumbull  open  his  vague 
blue  eyes  very  wide  indeed,  and  to  set  him  uneasily 
wondering  whether  he  had  really  found  out  so 
much  about  the  world  during  the  period  when  he 
had  served  in  the  Legislature  as  he  had  always 
thought  he  did. 

Though  the  members  of  the  committee  were  per 
sonally  attracted  to  Bill,  —  else  had  they  scarcely 
been  so  free  in  talk  with  him,  —  they  were  not 


THE  BROUGHTON  HOUSE.  299 

entirely  impressed  with  a  sense  of  his  important 
function  in  the  community,  until  their  discussion 
of  Collins  was  interrupted  by  an  urgent  demand 
for  Bill's  presence  in  the  back  yard  of  Samuel 
Parkinson.  The  worthy  storekeeper's  Durham 
cow  had  been  taken  unaccountably  sick  that  after 
noon,  and  Parkinson  himself  appeared  at  the  hotel, 
his  anxiety  breaking  huskily  through  his  smooth 
salesman  voice,  to  see  if  Mr.  Trumbull  would  not 
come  to  look  at  her.  Bill  rose  instantly  from  his 
chair.  He  was  prouder  of  his  skill  as  a  cow  doc 
tor  than  of  anything  else,  and  his  judgment  in 
veterinary  matters  was  accepted  as  final  by  every 
one  in  the  place.  The  deferential  manner  in  which 
the  bland  but  excited  Parkinson  requested  Trum- 
bull's  expert  opinion  convinced  the  men  from  Col 
lins  Mills  Junction  that  their  after-dinner  friend 
was  something  more  than  an  ordinary  hotel  chair- 
warmer,  and  they  accompanied  him  in  his  hasty 
march  across  the  Floyd  back  yard  to  the  store 
keeper's  premises.  The  cow  lay  there  under  a 
plum-tree,  her  legs  disconsolately  and  awkwardly 
stretched  out.  her  head  flat  on  the  ground.  She 
had  been  in  her  usual  high  spirits  when  Parkin 
son's  hopeful  heir  had  tethered  her  by  the  plum- 
tree  after  dinner,  and  the  sickness  was  alarmingly 
sudden.  The  women-folks  had  noticed  that  she 
was  not  chewing  her  cud ;  then  they  saw  her  fall 
to  the  ground,  and  they  ran  for  Mr.  Parkinson. 
Those  were  all  the  particulars  Bill  had  to  guide 


300  THE  BEOUGIITON  HOUSE. 

him  in  his  diagnosis.  But  genius  follows  its  own 
course.  Without  wasting  a  word  upon  the  onlook 
ers,  who  formed  an  interested  ring  around  the 
prostrate  Durham,  Bill  tried  the  temperature  of 
her  horns,  passed  his  hand  reflectively  over  her 
spine,  and  then  held  her  tail  in  both  hands,  moving 
them  up  and  down  slowly,  while  one  of  the  by 
standers  whispered  approvingly  that  a  cow's  tail 
was  her  thermometer,  every  time.  Taking  out  his 
jack-knife,  Bill  solemnly  made  an  insertion  at  the 
tip  of  the  aforesaid  tail,  and  watched  the  thin 
trickling  of  bright  red  blood  down  upon  the  grass. 
The  Durham  flapped  her  ears  in  a  discouraged 
manner.  Then  Bill  turned  to  Samuel  Parkinson, 
and  announced  oracularly : 

"  She's  a  pretty  sick  cow." 

A  great  doctor  of  medicine  was  lost  in  William 
Trumbull. 

"  Pretty  sick  cow,"  he  repeated.  "  Git  some 
soft-soap." 

He  took  off  his  coat  and  rolled  up  his  shirt 
sleeves,  while  they  brought  from  the  back  kitchen 
a  bucket  of  soap,  —  curiously  enough,  the  soaps 
whose  wondrous  efficacy  was  advertised  at  the 
store  did  not  find  their  way  to  the  storekeeper's 
kitchen,  —  and  with  it  a  wide-mouthed  quart  bot 
tle,  which  Trumbull  straightway  filled.  Prying  the 
cow's  reluctant  jaws  apart,  and  cramming  in  the 
bottle,  he  lifted  her  head  and  poured  the  liquid 
soap  into  her  innermost  parts.  Then  everybody 


THE  BEOUGHTOS   HOUSE.  301 

waited  in  respectful  silence,  two  minutes  —  five — 
ten.     But  the  Durham  did  not  even  flap  her  ears 
now.     The  case  was  evidently  most  serious. 

"  Pretty  sick  cow,"  reaffirmed  Bill,  poking  her 
inquisitively  in  the  region  of  the  stomach.  "  Git 
some  linseed  oil." 

Parkinson's  boy  started  on  a  dead  run  toward 
the  store,  and  the  crowd,  seeing  that  Bill's  rem 
edies  had  thus  far  proved  unavailing,  began  to 
interchange  theories  and  suggestions,  and  to  em 
phasize  in  an  ominous,  post-mortem  sort  of  way 
what  an  "awful  good  cow"  she  "had  ben."  Bill 
maintained  a  professional  silence ;  but  even  he 
betrayed  some  agitation  as  he  filled  the  quart- 
bottle  with  oil,  and  poured  it  down  the  Durham's 
unresisting  throat.  Her  tail  swung  from  side  to 
side  a  little,  in  the  grass.  At  this  Bill  filled  the 
bottle  a  second  time,  and  repeated  the  dose. 
After  half  a  minute  the  cow  shook  her  ears  and 
pushed  her  nose  into  the  grass ;  then  she  trem 
bled,  and  gave  two  or  three  queer,  hollow  coughs, 
followed  by  a  convulsive  gulp,  and  behold,  some 
thing  seemed  to  slide  up  her  throat.  Then  lifting 
her  head  and  drawing  in  her  legs  decorously,  she 
began  to  chew  her  cud  as  if  nothing  had  happened, 
while  from  the  circle  of  onlookers  burst  a  whole 
volley  of  excited  and  commendatory  ejaculations. 
Bill  Trumbull,  in  a  befitting  calm,  put  on  his  coat, 
and  then  patting  the  cow  gently  he  made  her  stand 
up,  and  felt  once  more  of  the  temperature  of  her 


302  THE  BEOUGHTON  HOUSE. 

tail.  He  relinquished  his  hold,  apparently  satisfied, 
when  Mr.  Parkinson  stepped  briskly  forward,  and 
took  the  tail  into  his  own  fingers,  pinching  and 
pulling  it  as  if  to  see  that  it  was  full  measure. 

"  She'll  git  along,"  remarked  Bill,  in  encourag 
ing  assurance.  "  She's  ben  a  pretty  sick  cow, 
but—" 

Just  then  the  Durham  lifted  her  horny,  sprawl 
ing  right  hoof,  and  drove  it  viciously  against  Sam 
uel  Parkinson's  irreproachable  shin.  There  was  a 
rapturous  howl  from  the  bystanders. 

"  But "  --  Bill  concluded,  the  mildest  twinkle  in 
his  eye,  as  he  looked  at  the  spot  on  Parkinson's 
linen  trousers  where  the  reddening  storekeeper 
was  frantically  rubbing — "I  guess  she's  all  right 
now." 

Thereupon,  amid  the  renewed  uproarious  laugh 
ter  and  the  sly  appreciative  nudges  in  the  ribs  with 
which  the  older  neighbors  conveyed  to  one  another 
their  secret  delight  at  Parkinson's  mishap,  Bill 
Trumbull  and  his  three  companions  walked  back 
to  the  hotel.  The  trio  were  proud  of  the  acquaint 
anceship,  and  as  for  Bill,  he  was  happy  to  have 
such  a  retinue  of  the  unemployed  about  him,  and 
his  only  regret  at  the  interruption  was  that  it  had 
interfered  with  some  further  questions  he  had 
intended  to  ask  his  new  friends,  as  to  the  sort  of 
man  Mr.  Collins  was  reputed  to  be  at  Collins 
Mills  Junction.  But  unfortunately  for  the  prose 
cution  of  his  inquiries,  in  which  he  felt  a  some- 


THE  BROUGHTON  HOUSE.  303 

what  uneasy  interest,  his  daughter  Miranda  was 
shaking  her  apron  at  him  from  the  other  side  of 
the  street,  and  he  was  obliged  to  go  over  and  help 
her  take  in  the  clothes  from  the  line  before  the  ap 
proaching  thunder  shower. 

When  he  got  back  to  the  hotel  after  supper  he 
found  to  his  disappointment  that  Collins  had 
returned  and  was  closeted  with  the  committee. 
Bill  waited  a  long  time  for  John  Sonderby  to  show 
himself,  and  failing  to  get  sight  of  him,  learned 
from  Evans  that  the  school-teacher  had  gone  to  his 
room.  Early  the  next  morning  the  strikers'  com 
mittee  drove  away,  having  without  much  difficulty 
accomplished  their  errand,  and  Bill  did  not  see 
them  again.  When  he  went  over  to  the  Brough- 
ton  House  after  breakfast,  though  he  went  more 
promptly  than  usual,  he  found  that  Sonderby,  too, 
was  gone. 

An  hour  before  Bill  made  his  appearance,  Cal 
vin  Johnson  drove  up  to  the  hotel,  and  entering 
the  office,  asked  for  the  school-teacher.  Sonderby 
was  finishing  his  breakfast,  and,  as  it  happened, 
alone ;  for  Collins  had  taken  an  early  repast  with 
his  re-instated  operatives,  and  the  Floyds  had  not 
yet  come  over.  He  came  out  of  the  dining-room 
at  the  stately  old  farmer's  message,  and  found 
him  in  a  heated  dispute  with  Evans  about  some 
boarders  who  the  Welshman  claimed  had  been 
induced  to  leave  the  Broughton  House  and  take 
up  their  quarters  at  Johnson's,  through  misrepresen- 


304  THE  BROUGHTON  HOUSE. 

tations  of  the  latter.  Calvin  Johnson,  owner  of 
the  best  farm  in  town  and  of  another  one  in  Ohio, 
selectman  of  the  town,  deacon  of  the  church,  was 
not  the  man  to  be  browbeaten  by  the  little  Welsh 
man,  and  Evans  was  already  beginning  to  regret 
that  he  had  opened  the  discussion,  when  Son- 
derby's  appearance  put  an  end  to  the  quarrel. 

"  How  d'ye  do  !  How  d'ye  do  !  "  Johnson  cried, 
heartily,  forgetting  his  valiant  wrath  at  the  hotel- 
keeper,  who  took  advantage  of  the  opportunity  to 
slip  away.  "  It  ain't  so  very  long  sence  I've  seen 
ye  ;  no.  I  suppose  ye  got  home  all  right  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Sonderby. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Sonderby,  Kufus  thought  I'd  better 
come  up  to  see  if  ye  didn't  want  to  come  down 
and  help  us  for  a  couple  of  days  with  the  tail-end 
of  the  hay  in'.  I'll  tell  ye  how  it  is.  Rufe  was 
shuttin'  the  big  door  of  the  barn  last  night — 'bout 
an  hour  after  you'd  got  away  —  when  the  wind 
was  blowin',  and  I  guess  he  must  'a  pushed  too 
hard — or  somethin'  —  anyway  he  seems  to  have 
kind  o'  sprained  his  shoulder.  Can't  move  it  this 
mornin'  without  hollerin'.  Mother's  been  rubbin' 
him  down  a  little  with  St.  Jacob's  oil,  and  I  dunno 
but  that  will  help  it  some,  and  I  dunno  as  it  will." 

"  I'm  sorry  to  hear  it." 

"  Yes,  yes  !  Oh,  well,  that  ain't  anythin'  that's 
going  to  bother  Rufe  very  long,  only  just  now  it 
don't  seem  very  providential.  Ye  see  we  let  our 
help  go  yesterday,  last  day  of  July,  calculatin' 


THE  BROUGHTOX  HOUSE.  305 

that  Rufe  and  I  and  the  boys  could  finish  every- 
thin'  up.  There  ain't  much  but  the  orchard,  and 
that  medder  swamp,  ye  know,  where  you  and  Rufe 
was  last  summer." 

"  I  know,'*  interrupted  Sonderby.  "  And  Rufus 
wants  me  to  come  down  and  help  you  through  ?  " 

'•  Why,  yes,  that's  the  how  of  it,"  and  his  kindly 
face  broke  into  a  smile.  i;  I  told  Rufe,  says  I, '  Mr. 
Sonderby  is  up  there  among  those  city  folks,  and 
he  won't  want  to  come  down  here  hayin',  the 
way  he  did  last  summer.'  But  Rufe,  he  would 
have  it  that  you  wan't  naturally  inclined  to  train 
with  the  city  folks,  no  more  than  he  is,  and  says 
he,  '  I  shouldn't  wonder,  now.  if  the  school-teacher 
would  be  glad  to  come.'  Thinks  I,  there  ain't  any 
harm  in  hitchin*  up  and  drivin'  in  to  the  street  and 
askin'  him,  —  I  had  to  git  some  skunk's  oil  at 
Parkinson's  for  Rufe's  shoulder,  anyhow,  —  and  if 
he  don't  want  to  come,  he  can  just  say  so.  So 
here  I  be." 

"  Certainly,"  said  Sonderby,  slowly.  "  I  can  go 
just  as  well  as  not.  Perhaps  better.  There's  noth 
ing  for  me  to  do  here." 

He  took  his  hat  from  a  peg  in  the  hall,  stepped 
into  the  wagon,  and  drove  off  behind  the  iron-grays. 
He  stayed  down  at  Calvin  Johnson's  two  days. 
Most  of  the  time  he  was  mowing  under  the  long 
rows  of  apple-trees  in  the  hillside  orchard,  or  out 
in  the  sunny  swale.  He  no  longer  worked  fu- 
riouslv,  as  in  those  two  dav$  on  the  farm  of  Bill 


306  THE  BEOUGHTON  HOUSE. 

TrumbulTs  son-in-law,  when  he  had  tried  to  tire 
out  and  crush  down  something  within  him.  There 
was  no  need  of  that  now.  That  was  all  over.  But 
he  mowed  steadily  and  quietly,  up  and  down  the 
peaceful  orchard  rows,  or  in  the  wet  bottoms  where 
the  Johnson  brook  streamed  noiselessly  through 
the  sedges ;  and  the  familiar  employment,  and  the 
homely  life,  and  nature's  midsummer  restfulness 
were  all  ministering  to  him.  Hour  after  hour 
Ruf  us  Johnson,  his  arm  in  a  sling  and  right  shoul 
der  bandaged,  walked  along  beside  the  school 
teacher,  for  the  mere  sake  of  having  his  company ; 
and  though  neither  of  the  young  fellows  said  much, 
Sonderby  was  glad  to  have  him  there.  Unsus 
pected  by  himself,  these  two  uneventful  days  were 
the  turning-point  of  John  Sonderby 's  life. 

Late  on  Thursday  afternoon,  Calvin  Johnson, 
who  had  driven  up  to  the  street  to  get  the  mail  for 
his  boarders,  came  down  into  the  meadow  with  a 
couple  of  letters  in  his  hand.  Sonderby  was  in  the 
middle  of  the  swale,  throwing  the  green  hay  with 
a  fork  out  toward  the  firm  ground,  for  curing. 
Rufus  sat  near  by  on  a  willow  stump,  nursing  his 
lame  arm  in  his  left  hand. 

"  Here  y'are,  Mr.  Sonderby ! "  called  old  John 
son,  cheerily.  "  Well,  it  does  beat  all  how  you  git 
along.  Never  mind  cockin'  this  up  to-night;  we 
shan't  git  any  more  rain  right  away." 

He  handed  over  the  letters,  and  picking  up  Son- 
derby's  rake,  began  to  pull  the  grass  into  windrows 


THE  BEOUGHTON   HOUSE.  307 

along  the  edge  of  the  swale.  Sonclerby  broke  open 
the  notes.  The  first  one  was  from  Mrs.  Ellerton, 
dated  the  day  before. 

"  DEAR  MR.  SOXDERBY  :  I  can  scarcely  tell  you 
how  delighted  we  are  to  learn  that  you  expect  to 
remain  in  Broughton  another  winter.  It  is  a  great 
pleasure  to  us  personally  to  know  that  you  are  to 
be  here,"  and  certainly  every  one  who  is  acquainted 
with  the  academy  would  have  regretted  that  you 
saw  fit  to  relinquish  your  work  there. 

"  For  some  time  I  have  been  thinking  how  we 
might  make  some  of  the  evenings  in  the  coming- 
winter  more  attractive  and  helpful  to  the  young- 
people,  and  some  photographs  which  have  just  been 
sent  to  us  have  made  me  wonder  if  we  could  not 
arrange  a  course  of  4  travel  evenings,'  or  something 
of  that  sort,  at  the  academy,  or  in  the  lecture-room 
of  the  church.  What  do  you  think  of  the  plan  ? 
Would  you  be  willing  to  help  ?  Won't  you,  at  any 
rate,  come  to  take  tea  with  us  to-morrow  evening, 
at  six,  and  talk  it  over  ? 

"  Very  sincerely, 

"RUTH  ELLERTON. 

"  BROUGHTOX,  Wednesday,  August  1,  188-." 

He  ran  his  eye  twice  over  the  strong,  almost 
masculine  handwriting,  and  then  pushed  the  note 
back  into  the  square  envelope,  glancing  at  the 
sun  meantime.  It  was  almost  six  then.  To  accept 


308  THE  BROUGHTON  HOUSE. 

Mrs.  Ellerton's  invitation  was  an  impossibility.  The 
second  note  was  brief,  and  was  scrawled  stiffly  in 
lead-pencil  on  a  half-sheet  of  Broughton  House 
paper. 

"  JOHN  SONDERBY,  Esq. : 

"  Respected  Sir,  —  I  want  to  see  you  particular. 
"Y'rs,  WILLIAM  TBUMBULL." 

There  was  no  date,  but  the  envelope  had  been 
stamped  at  the  village  post-office  that  afternoon. 

"  Mr.  Johnson,"  called  out  the  school-teacher, 
"  do  you  suppose  one  of  the  boys  could  drive  me 
up  to  the  street  ?  " 

"  To  be  sure  "  —  and  noticing*  the  seriousness  of 

O 

Sonderby's  tone,  he  added,  "  There  ain't  any  bad 
news,  is  there  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,"  replied  Sonderby,  "  I'm  invited  to  tea, 
for  one  thing." 

"Ain't  that  bad  news  for  you?"  put  in  Rufus, 
who  dared  to  twit  the  schoolmaster  on  his  reputa 
tion  for  social  shortcomings. 

"  Well,  we  won't  settle  it,"  Sonderby  answered. 
"  It's  too  late  to  go,  anyway.  But  I  think  I  shall 
have  to  drive  up  to  the  village." 

"  Let  one  of  the  boys  take  ye  in  the  buckboard," 
said  Rufus.  "  Hitch  on  the  old  horse ;  he'll  get 
ye  there  now  as  quick  as  the  span.  I  allers  tell 
father  so,  but  he  hates  to  drive  single." 

"  How  will  it  be  about  to-morrow  ?  "  asked  Son 
derby,  hesitatingly. 


THE  BROUGHT  OS   HOUSE.  309 

"  Jest  as  ye  like,"  answered  old  Johnson.  "The 
boys  and  I  can  turn  this  over  and  cock  it  up,  easy 
enough.  And  I  guess  we  can  git  it  in  without  ye 
if  you'd  rather  do  anythin'  else.  Rufe,  here,  can 
ride  a  horse-rake  by  day  after  to-morrow,  it's  likely.'' 

"  No,  there  ain't  any  use  in  your  coming  down 
again,  unless  ye  want  to,"  chimed  in  Rufus.  "But 
ye  know  we're  awful  glad  to  have  ye  here,  Mr. 
Sonclerby,  whether  there's  any  hayin'  or  not." 

"  I  guess  we  be  !  "  affirmed  the  elder  man. 

"  Well,  we'll  leave  it  this  way,  then,"  Sonderby 
decided.  "  I  won't  come  to-morrow,  for  you  don't 
need  me,  and  when  you  drive  up  for  the  mail  to 
morrow  afternoon,  we  can  see  how  it  will  be  for 
Saturday." 

"  All  right,  all  right !  You've  helped  us  out  of 
quite  a  hole,  in  these  two  days.  Tell  the  boys  to 
hitch  right  up.  I'll  finish  this  little  spell  of  work 
here."  Johnson  went  back  to  his  rake,  and  Son 
derby  and  Rufus  crossed  the  meadow  to  the  farm 
house. 

It  was  nearly  seven  o'clock,  in  spite  of  the  ac 
tivity  of  the  old  horse,  when  the  buekboard  de 
posited  Sonderby  in  front  of  the  Broughton  House. 
The  piazza  was  gay  with  people,  just  from  the 
dining-room ;  but  Sonderby  knew  scarcely  any  of 
them,  even  by  sight.  He  went  up  to  his  room  and 
put  on  his  black  suit,  meaning  to  call  at  the  par 
sonage  after  he  had  seen  Bill  Trumbull,  and  ex 
plain  why  he  had  failed  to  accept  Mrs.  Ellerton's 


310  THE  BEOUGHTON  HOUSE. 

invitation.  Calvin  Johnson's  wife  had  made  him 
eat  some  supper  while  the  horse  was  being  har 
nessed,  and  he  did  not  therefore  stop  at  the  hotel 
dining-room  when  he  came  down  stairs.  The  par 
lor  was  full  of  newly  arrived  guests,  and  some 
young  ladies  were  trying  merrily  to  waltz  to  the 
discordant  strains  of  the  melodeon.  At  the  office 
door  Sonderby  found  Bill  Trumbull  waiting  for 
him.  The  ex-hotel-keeper  looked  very  much  re 
lieved  when  he  caught  sight  of  the  stocky  figure 
of  the  young  fellow  coming  toward  him,  and  he 
drew  Sonderby's  arm  into  his  —  an  entirely  un 
usual  proceeding  —  and  walked  him  across  the 
office  to  the  most  retired  corner.  They  sat  down 
there,  underneath  the  mouldy  lithograph  of  Dan 
iel  Webster.  Bill  Trumbull  was  nervous ;  his 
straw-colored  eyebrows  were  crumpled  toward 
each  other,  and  his  smooth-shaven  upper  lip  was 
twitching  just  perceptibly. 

"I'm  glad  to  see  you,"  he  said,  in  a  husky 
whisper.  "  I'm  gosh  darned  glad  to  see  you." 

"  I  got  your  letter  this  afternoon,"  said  Son 
derby,  wondering  what  was  coming. 

"  Yes.     You  ain't  heard  nothin'  ?  " 

"  Why,  no." 

"  Well,  I  dunno's  you  would.  Come  to  think 
on't,  I  dunno's  there's  anythin'  to  hear.  But  I'm 
mistrustful,  Mr.  Sonderby.  I  don't  exactly  know 
what  to  think,  and  I  wanted  to  see  you.  You 
always  seemed  a  square  kind  of  a  feller,  and  I 


THE  BROUGHTON  HOUSE.  311 

dunno  but  you  know  more  about  young  folks  than 
I  do.  Say/' 

The  stable-boy  was  lighting  a  kerosene  lamp 
above  the  fireplace,  and  Bill  lowered  his  voice  still 
more,  so  as  not  to  be  heard.  Sonderby  drew  his 
chair  a  trifle  closer. 

"It's  about  Collins.  You  know  those  fellers 
that  were  up  here  the  other  day  to  see  him?" 

"From  the  mills?" 

"Yes.  Pretty  likely  kind  of  fellers,  too.  I 
talked  with  'em  a  good  while.  And  by  and  by  we 
got  to  talkin'  about  Collins  himself.  Say,  they 
know  more  about  him  down  there  than  we  do  up 
here." 

"  I  shouldn't  wonder,"  was  the  dry  rejoinder. 

"  There  ain't  no  doubt  of  it.  He's  one  of  the 
pleasantest  fellers  that  ever  came  up  here  fishin', 
but  in  some  ways,  they  told  me,  he  ain't  a  nice 
man,  not  at  all.  I  didn't  ask  them  all  I  wanted  to, 
but  there  wan't  no  doubt  about  what  they  had  in 
mind." 

Sonderby  was  silent. 

"  NOAV  that's  all  right  for  you  and  me,"  Bill  went 
on,  his  innocent  old  heart  making  an  awkward 
pretence  of  worldliness ;  c*  it  don't  make  much 
difference  to  us  whether  he's  just  the  right  sort  of 
man  or  not ;  he  don't  trouble  us  any.  But  it's  a 
different  thing,  when  you  come  to  the  women 
folks  —  when  you  come,  for  instance,  to  Trypheny." 

Sonderby's  eyes  were  on  the  floor.     The  stable- 


312  THE  BEOUGHTON  HOUSE. 

boy  looked  curiously  at  the  two  men  whispering 
in  the  corner,  and  then  went  reluctantly  out  of  the 
office. 

uNow  she  don't  know  anythin'  about  him.  If 
she  knew  what  kind  of  a  feller  he  was,  she  wouldn't 
have  nothin'  to  do  with  him.  And  that's  what  I 
want  to  see  you  about.  It  looks  kind  of  queer  to 
have  me  pokin'  myself  into  other  folks's  business, 
but  I  set  a  big  store  by  that  little  girl  —  she  ain't 
nothin'  more  than  a  girl,  you  know  —  and  it  would 
be  a  darned  shame  if  folks  got  to  talkin'  about  her. 
They  do  a'ready,  though,  Mirandy  says.  Now 
I  shouldn't  dast  say  anythin'  to  Trypheny.  I'd  be 
too  ashamed,  you  know  —  old  as  I  am  —  but  I 
didn't  know  but  perhaps  you,  bein'  more  'round 
with  her  —  and  bein'  the  school-teacher  —  could 
kind  o'  drop  a  word — sort  o'-  Bill  stopped 
helplessly. 

"  But  she  is  a  married  woman,  Trumbull,"  said 
Sonderby,  slowly,  as  if  he  were  patiently  explaining 
an  intricate  matter  to  a  child.  "  It  is  the  place 
of  her  husband  — 

"Exactly,"  broke  in  Bill.  "That's  jest  the 
trouble.  If  Floyd  was  here,  I  dunno  as  there 
would  have  been  any  need  of  my  writin'  to  you. 
But  now  he's  gone  — 

"Gone?"  cried  Sonderby,  starting  up  in  his 
chair.  Then  he  sank  back.  What  less  could  he 
have  expected? 

"  Yes,  gone  to  New  York  —  didn't  I  tell  you  ? 


THE  BROUGHTOS  HOUSE.  313 

Why,  when  you  was  all  off  fishin",  —  it  was  that 
same  afternoon  I  had  the  talk  with  these  fellers,  — 
a  telegram  come  to  Floyd  from  Chicago,  and  an 
other  one  yesterday  morning  from  Xew  York. 
I  heard  tell  he  had  to  meet  somebody  in  New 
York ;  guess  likely  it  was  that  feller  he  was  paintin' 
the  picture  for,  for  he  had  the  picture  all  boxed  up 
to  take  away  with  him.  He  told  Evans  here,  that 
he  might  have  to  be  away  a  couple  of  weeks." 

"  A  couple  of  weeks,"  repeated  Sonderby,  in  a 
tone  that  Trumbull  did  not  understand. 

"  Yes ;  Trypheny's  goiiv  to  keep  house  by  herself 
while  he's  gone.  She  ain't  comin'  over  to  the 
hotel.  And  now  I'll  tell  you  what  I  don't  like." 

Just  then  a  couple  of  the  young  ladies  who  had 
been  all  this  time  waltzing  in  the  parlor  whirled 
out  of  the  door  and  across  the  hall  into  the  office, 
where  they  made  the  circuit  of  the  room  once  — 
with  delighted  little  cries  at  the  new-found  space. 
Their  flying  skirts  brushed  against  the  knees  of 
Bill  Trumbull  and  Sonderby,  as  they  circled  past, 
and  then  they  danced  out  of  the  office  again,  as 
gaily  and  suddenly  as  they  had  entered. 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  I  don't  like,*'  repeated  Bill. 
"  Collins  was  over  there  yesterday  afternoon,  after 
Floyd  went  off.  And  last  night  he  took  her  to 
drive  —  I  guess  out  towards  East  Part.  Now  she 
probably  don't  know  any  better,  not  suspectin'  any 
thing  against  Collins.  But  it  ain't  the  right  thing, 
Mr.  Sonderby.  It  ain't  the  right  thing." 


314  THE  BROUGIITON    HOUSE. 

Bill  drew  a  long  breath,  having  at  last  relieved 
his  mind  of  what  he  wanted  to  say. 

"  Where  is  Collins  ?  "  demanded  Sonderby,  in  a 
hard  voice. 

"Well,  that's  somethin'  else  that  p'raps  I'd 
ought  to  have  said.  He  went  away  this  mornin', 
to  see  about  the  startin'  up  of  the  mills,  and  he 
told  Evans  that  he  was  comin'  back  to-morrow 
afternoon  —  yes,  Friday,  to-morrow  —  to  get  his 
things.  Now  if  that's  all  there  is  to  it,  if  he's 
really  goin'  away,  I  dunno  but  I've  made  a  great 
bark  over  a  little  woodchuck.  But  if  he's  goin' 
to  stay  along  here  at  the  hotel,  and  Trypheny  not 
knowin'  anything  about  him  more'n  he's  a  good- 
lookin'  feller  and  a  rich  feller,  and  in  good  society, 
—  knows  the  minister's  folks,  you  see,  —  why,  it 
ain't  the  right  thing." 

Sonderby  got  up  and  paced  the  floor  once  or 
twice.  He  was  more  touched  by  what  the  pure- 
hearted  old  gossip  had  said  than  he  cared  to  show. 

"Bill,"  said  he,  coming  back  and  laying  his 
hand  on  Trumbull's  shoulder,  "you're  quite  right, 
sir.  I'm  glad  we've  had  the  talk.  I  don't  know 
that  there's  anything  for  you  or  for  me  to  do  in 
the  matter,"  —  and  his  words  seemed  to  the  older 
man  thick  and  strange,  — "  but  if  there  is,  we'll 
do  it." 

Bill  rose  too.  There  were  two  or  three  other 
persons  in  the  office  now,  by  the  fireplace,  Evans 
among  them. 


THE  BEOUGHTOS  HOUSE.  315 

"  Good  night,  sir,  if  I  don't  see  you  again.''  said 
Sonderby.  "  I'm  going  up  to  the  parsonage  for  a 
while." 

"  Good  night,  good  night  !  I  tell  you,  I'm  much 
obliged  to  you;"  and  Bill  shuffled  over  towards 
his  accustomed  seat  with  a  lighter  heart  than  he 
had  had  for  twenty-four  hours. 

Sonderby  went  out  at  the  side  door,  to  avoid 
brushing  his  way  through  the  crowd  of  people  in 
the  hall.  Bill's  anxiety  for  the  motherless  and 
solitary  Tryphena  had  affected  him  profoundly. 
There  were  other  elements  in  the  problem,  how 
ever,  of  which  Bill  was  apparently  ignorant ;  but 
the  school-teacher  did  not  have  it  in  his  heart  to 
reveal  them,  even  had  he  thought  it  wise.  His 
disappointment  in  Tryphena  herself  had  been  so 
personal  and  so  bitter,  that  there  was  something 
sacred  to  him  about  it.  It  was  not  something  to 
be  spoken  of.  Yet  he  did  speak  of  it  in  less  than 
ten  minutes,  and  to  Mrs.  Floyd  herself. 

As  he  walked  up  the  driveway  to\vards  the  end 
of  the  hotel  piazza,  his  eyes  bent  on  the  ground, 
he  heard  some  one  on  the  left  call  his  name.  He 
turned,  and  saw  her  advancing  from  the  lilacs,  the 
same  thin  red  shawl  around  her  shoulders  that  she 
had  worn  when  posing  for  the  picture.  Sonderby 
halted,  making  rather  an  awkward  bow.  She 
came  right  up  to  him  and  put  out  her  hand.  He 
held  it  a  moment,  and  remembered  afterward  how 
very  small  it  seemed,  and  cold.  Indeed,  she  was 


316  THE  BROUGHTON  HOUSE. 

shivering  a  little,  for  there  was  a  heavy  dew  on  the 
grass,  and  it  always  grew  cool  in  Broughton  after 
sundown. 

"  I've  been  waiting  for  yon,"  she  said,  glancing 
at  him  with  that  shy  frankness  which  had  charmed 
him  with  her  at  first.  "  I  saw  Johnson's  team  stop 
at  the  hotel,  and  guessed  likely  you  had  come ; 
but  I  dursn't  go  over  alone  for  you  among  all  those 
folks." 

He  stood  looking  at  her,  not  knowing  what  to  say. 

"I  can't  stay  here,"  she  added.  "It's  awful 
damp,"  and  she  stretched  out  one  foot  and  looked 
ruefully  at  the  thin  wet  shoe. 

"Yes,"  he  blurted  out,  "you'll  catch  cold. 
Rufus  was  afraid  you  had  the  other  night."  It 
was  the  first  word  he  had  spoken  to  her  since  the 
fishing-party. 

"  Oh,  Rufus,"  she  replied.  "  He  was  always 
worrying  about  me."  She  took  a  step  or  two  back 
toward  the  cottage,  and  then  turned  her  head  as  if 
she  were  not  sure  that  Sonderby  was  following  her. 
"  Come  on  in,"  she  cried,  tightening  the  folds  of 
the  shawl  across  her  narrow  little  shoulders,  and 
seeing  he  had  not  started,  she  added  in  a  lower 
voice,  "Do  you  mind,  Mr.  Sonderby?  Were  you 
going  anywhere  else  ?  " 

He  shook  his  head  and  strode  after  her,  as  she 
stepped  daintily  and  swiftly  over  the  long  tangled 
grass.  In  the  sitting-room  one  of  the  lamps  was 
already  lighted.  Tryphena  threw  off  her  shawl, 


THE  BROUGHTOy   HOUSE.  317 

and  sat  down  in  the  low  rocking-chair  by  the 
window.  It  was  getting  dark  outside.  The  young 
ladies  at  the  Broughton  House  were  still  dancing 
to  the  sound  of  the  old  melodeon,  and  Mrs.  Floyd 
shut  the  window.  "  I  get  kind  o'  sick  of  one  sort 
of  tune  after  a  while,  don't  you  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  don't  notice  them  much,"  he  said,  absently. 
"  One  tune  is  a  good  deal  like  another  to  me,  most 
of  the  time.  You  know  I  wasn't  any  great  help 
in  our  quartette."  He  was  thinking  that  she  and 
Collins  had  done  most  of  the  singing. 

ki  Oh,  the  quartette ! "  she  cried.  u  Well,  it  wasn't 
much  of  a  quartette,  was  it?  No  great  shakes. 
But  it  was  as  good  as  anything  else  to  make  the 
time  go." 

"  The  time  is  gone,  at  any  rate,"  said  Sonderby. 
He  did  not  know  what  he  could  say  to  her,  nor 
why  she  had  called  him  in.  What  could  Mrs. 
Floyd  want  of  him  ? 

"  Yes,"  she  replied,  shrugging  her  shoulders. 

There  was  a  long  pause. 

"Did  Bill  Trumbull  tell  you  anything?"  she 
suddenly  asked. 

"Bill  Trumbull?"  he  repeated,  startled  into 
feigning  ignorance  of  the  drift  of  her  question. 
But  John  Sonderby  made  unskilful  work  of  any 
such  artifices,  and  she  offered  no  reply  except  to 
look  him  in  the  eyes. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  he  said,  resolved  to  make 
her  speak  first. 


318  THE  BEOUGHTON  HOUSE. 

"  About  my  bus  —  about  Mr.  Floyd." 

"  Bill  said  he  had  gone  to  New  York,  to  be  away 
two  or  three  weeks." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  she  exclaimed,  hastily.  "  Then  he 
did  tell  you  !  "  She  seemed  relieved. 

"  But  I  know  better,"  said  blunt  John  Sonderby. 

"  You  —  know  —  better  ?  "  she  repeated,  with  a 
long,  slow  breath,  as  if  each  word  hurt  her.  "  What 
do  you  know  ?  " 

She  thought  there  were  but  three  persons  in 
the  world  who  knew  her  husband's  plans,  —  her 
husband  and  Collins  and  herself. 

"  What  do  you  know  ?  "  she  demanded,  pitifully. 
"  Tell  me." 

He  flung  himself  out  of  his  chair  and  paced  the 
room  twice,  as  if  it  were  his  own.  How  could  he 
tell  her  the  bare  truth  overheard  by  him  in  all  its 
ugliness?  Yet  of  course  she  knew  it,  had  known 
it  all  the  time,  had  known  it  when  she  made  that 
gesture  with  her  parasol  at  Collins,  up  in  the 
woods  above  the  cascade. 

"Mrs.  Floyd,"  he  said,  hoarsely,  stopping  in 
front  of  her.  "  I  knew  that  he  was  going  away  to 
be  gone  —  a  good  while.  I  have  known  it  since 
last  Sunday  night  —  I  overheard  him  say  so." 

"  You  —  overheard  —  him  ?  "  She  lifted  her  face, 
and  it  hardened  into  scornful  lines,  but  she  was 
not  thinking  of  Son  derby's  eavesdropping. 

"  I  could  not  help  it,"  he  said,  simply,  believing 
that  it  was  he  whom  she  despised  so.  "  I  could 


THE  BROUGHTOy   HOUSE.  319 

not  help  listening,  for  I  thought  I  might  do  you  a 
service.'* 

"  Oh,  don't  —  I  don't  mean  that,"  she  cried, 
wistfully ;  "  I  waii't  blaming  you.''  Then  some 
thing  in  his  attitude,  as  he  stood  looking  down  at 
her,  seemed  to  remind  her  of  that  other  time  when 
they  two  had  been  in  that  same  room  together. 
'•  Do  me  a  service  ?  "  she  repeated  the  words  almost 
tenderly.  "  Don't  you  remember  I  told  you  once, 
right  here,  that  you  couldn't  help  me,  that  no 
body  could  help  me  ?  " 

He  stood  staring  at  her,  struggling  within  him 
self.  Hers  seemed  like  an  honest  woman's  voice  : 
if  he  could  only  believe  it  was !  She  made  a 
strong  effort,  apparently,  to  control  herself,  and 
motioned  to  him  to  sit  down. 

"  Perhaps  I  oughtn't  to  have  said  that,  Mr. 
Sonderby,  but  I  was  kind  of  desperate.  I  knew 
this  was  coming.  I  knew  it  pretty  near  a  month 
ago  —  and  sometimes  I  haven't  known  just  what 
I  was  saying  or  doing."  She  spoke  quietly,  only 
with  a  sort  of  girlish  pleading. 

"Ah,  yes,"  he  said,  "I  may  have  misunderstood 
you.  May  God  forgive  me  if  I  have ;  but  I  have 
thought  —  I  have  had  to  think  —  that  there  was 
no  help  for  matters  ;  —  that  you  did  not  care,  any 
longer  —  " 

He  stopped  entirely,  not  knowing  how  he  could 
put  delicately  to  her  the  words  that  were  on  his 
lips. 


320  THE  BEOUGHTON  HOUSE. 

She  waited  for  him,  and  then  said,  gently  as 
his  mother  might  have  done,  "  Hadn't  you  better 
say  it  right  out  —  all  of  it  ?  It'll  make  us  both 
feel  better." 

That  last  sentence  conquered  his  heart,  although 
his  brain  was  still  confused  in  the  tangle  of  the 
evidence  against  her. 

"  Mrs.  Floyd,"  he  cried,  "  I  can't  understand  it. 
It  is  too  much  for  me.  What  have  you  meant, 
when  you  let  Collins  —  go  on  so  ?  Tuesday  - 
when  he  was  —  talking  with  you  on  the  carriage 
seat  ?  You  drive  with  him  —  Great  Heavens,  what 
a  botch  I  make  of  it !  But  can't  you  see  ?  Don't 
you  care  ?  " 

"  Oh,"  she  said,  without  lifting  her  eyes  from 
the  carpet.  "  I  guess  I  understand,  Mr.  Sonderby. 
I  suppose  you  think  I  haven't  let  my  moderation 
be  known, — as  Aunt  Tryphena  used  to  tell  me 
to  do  whenever  we  went  on  straw-rides.  4  Let 
your  moderation  be  known,  Phenie.'  And  I  don't 
know  as  I  have."  Her  tone  was  very  girlish.  It 
made  him  think  of  having  one  of  his  pupils  at  the 
academy  on  the  front  seat,  and  lecturing  her  for 
some  slight  misdemeanor. 

"  No,"  she  continued,  seeing  that  he  was  not  in 
clined  to  speak,  "I  don't  know  but  I  have  given 
you  some  chance  to  think  I  didn't  mind  much  what 
people  said.  I  guess  I've  acted  sort  of  queer.  Men 
don't  understand  those  things  very  well ;  none  of 
them  do.  They  think  some  little  thing  means  too 


THE  BROUGHTOX   HOUSE.  321 

much  ;  or  else  that  it  doesn't  mean  enough.  And 
I  didn't  want  to  make  Mr.  Collins  mad.  Tin  sort 
of  afraid  of  him.'' 

"  But —  "  broke  in  Sonclerby,  hesitatingly. 

"  Yes,  I  know.  You're  particular.  You're  more 
particular  than  Broughton  folks  are,  even  if  you 
don't  say  anything.  You  didn't  like  to  see  him 
sit  there  with  his  arm  on  the  back  of  the  seat. 
You  didn't  like  to  have  me  go  off  to  drive  with 
him.  I  knew  you  didn't,  all  the  time.  Neither 
would  Aunt  Tryphena.  She  would  have  had  con 
niptions  over  it.  But  I  was  only  fooling.  I  was 
kind  of  desperate,  and  had  to  do  something."  She 
looked  up  in  his  face  as  she  finished,  as  if  waiting 
for  the  decision  of  a  moral  judgment  superior  to 
her  own.  She  met  his  scrutiny  without  wavering- 
she  seemed  to  be  blushing  a  little,  but  that  was  all. 
John  Sonderby  gazed  into  her  shadowy  eyes,  so 
fully  open  to  him  now,  and  he  believed  her.  She 
was  only  a  girl,  —  an  ignorant  country  girl,  —  who 
had  had,  perhaps,  some  excuse  for  "fooling,"  as 
she  certainly  had  had  cause  for  feeling  "  desper 
ate."  Poor  girl !  The  old  pity  for  her  came  back ; 
but  it  brought  nothing  else  with  it  now,  for  in  those 
terrible  two  hours  in  the  woods  on  Tuesday,  and 
in  the  quiet  two  days  in  orchard  and  swale,  John 
Sonderby  had,  worked  his  way,  irretraceably,  through 
a  certain  part  of  the  experience  allotted  to  him. 

"  Yes,"  he  said  softly.  "  God  knows  you  have 
had  a  hard  time.  And  I  have  misjudged  you." 


322  THE  BROUGHTON  HOUSE. 

She  dropped  her  eyes,  and  trembled  slightly ; 
then  reached  for  her  shawl,  and  drew  it  around 
her,  as  if  she  were  cold. 

"Shan't  I  build  a  fire  for  you,  Mrs.  Floyd?" 
asked  the  school-teacher. 

"No,  it  isn't  worth  while,"  she  answered. 
"Thank  you." 

The  words  "  Mrs.  Floyd  "  seemed  to  recall  him 
to  the  real  situation,  and  the  sense  of  her  girlish- 
ness  passed  away.  He  felt  that  in  some  way  he 
must  offer  to  help  her,  to  let  her  know,  too,  that 
Trumbull  had  been  caring  about  her.  But  it  was 
she  who  spoke  first. 

"  It's  all  right  now.  There  won't  be  any  more 
trouble,  Mr.  Sonderby.  You  won't  have  to  worry 
any  more." 

He  looked  at  her  inquiringly. 

"  Don't  you  see  ? "  she  said.  "  It's  all  over, 
now.  Billy  has  gone  away ;  he  wasn't  happy  up 
here  in  Broughton.  It  wasn't  anybody's  fault ;  he 
was  made  different  from  other  people.  He'll  come 
back  by  and  by ;  he  won't  be  contented  over  there 
either,  always."  This  defence  of  her  husband  was 
delivered  in  a  rapid,  even  voice. 

"  And  you  ?  "  said  John  Sonderby,  simply. 

"  Oh,  I?  I  shall  stay  here,  right  here  in  Brough 
ton,  where  I  was  brought  up  and  where  I  belong. 
And  what  other  place  is  there  for  me  ?  " 

He  was  silent. 

"  I  own  this  house.    Didn't  you  know  it?  "    She 


THE  PROUGHTON  HOUSE.  828 

was  trying  hard  to  make  light  of  the  matter,  as  if 
it  were  only  an  ordinary  domestic  expedient  that 
was  occupying  her  mind.  "You  needn't  trouble. 
It  will  be  all  right." 

He  still  sat  looking  at  her. 

k-  Don't  you  miss  me  at  the  hotel  ? "  persisted 
Mrs.  Floyd.  "  Oh,  I  forgot ;  you  have  been  down 
at  Calvin  Johnson's.  Bill  is  the  only  one  of  us 
left  at  the  Broughton  House,  now,  isn't  he  ?  "  She 
laughed,  but  rather  nervously. 

"  Collins's  things  are  there,"  he  said. 

Her  manner  changed.  ;*  I  know.  He  is  coming 
back  for  them  to-morrow." 

"  Bill  Trumbull  said  that  Collins  might  stay  a 
while  longer." 

"  Oh,  no,"  she  cried,  excitedly.  "  He  won't.  He 
—  told  me  so." 

"  You  are  sure  ?  " 

She  nodded  at  him  with  a  curious  look  in  her 
eyes,  for  answer.  He  could  not  understand  the 
expression,  but  he  believed  her  implicitly,  and  the 
worst  of  the  weight  that  had  been  on  his  mind 
rolled  off.  There  was  nothing  between  her  and 
Collins,  after  all.  She  had  been  wrong  and  foolish, 
but  there  was  nothing  back  of  that,  and  there 
would  be  no  chance  for  further  mischief. 

"And  you  are  going  too,  Mr.  Sonderby,"  she 
said  reflectively. 

"I?" 

"Why,   yes!      To   Boston.      They   all    told   me 


324  THE  BROUGHTON  HOUSE. 

you  were  going  — •  to  be  with  the  electric  com 
pany." 

"  I  did  think  of  it,"  he  remarked.  There  was  no 
use  in  telling  her  that  he  had  abandoned  all  that 
for  her  sake. 

"  You  did  think  of  it  ?  Don't  you  think  of  it 
now?  Why,  they  told  me  it  was  a  splendid  place, 
just  what  you  wanted." 

"I  have  reason  to  think  that  they  have  given 
that  position  to  some  one  else." 

"  But  there  must  be  plenty  more,"  she  cried, 
with  an  agitation  that  puzzled  him.  "Aren't  there 
a  great  many  electric  companies  nowadays  ?  There 
must  be  ever  so  many  places  in  Boston  where  they 
would  be  glad  to  have  you.  You  know  so  much 
about  those  things,  you  are  so  strong  and  —  faith 
ful—so—  " 

"  Thank  you,"  he  broke  in  clumsily,  with  a  sort 
of  embarrassed  bow,  and  a  half  pretence  of  taking 
her  words  as  a  compliment  merely. 

"  Oh,  but  I  mean  it ! "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Floyd, 
"  I  mean  it !  You  ought  not  to  stay  here  in 
Broughton  any  longer.  You  can  do  so  much  more 
for  yourself  in  Boston.  I  know  it.  I  have  heard 
the  others  talking  about  it  —  weeks  ago.  It  is  a 
pity  to  have  you  stay  here  —  way  up  here  —  kind 
of  out  of  the  world,  when  you  want  to  be  in  a  big 
laboratory,  and  to  have  books  and  to  invent 
things." 

She  spoke  eagerly,  firmly,  and  he  felt  a  sort  of 


THE  BROUGHTOX  HOUSE.  325 

conviction  that  she  was  right.  There  was  a  strange 
sensation  within  him,  as  if  the  oscillations  of  pur 
pose  that  had  carried  him  back  and  forth  all  sum 
mer  were  ceasing  now,  and  his  will  was  coming  to 
rest  at  a  fixed  point.  A  few  days  before  he  had 
resolved  to  give  up  all  this  new  life  which  she  had 
just  marked  out  for  him,  to  give  it  up  that  he 
might  stay  in  Broughton  and  be  near  her.  But 
now  it  was  she  who  was  telling  him  to  go. 

"You  seem  to  want  to  have  me  go,"  he  said, 
trying  to  smile. 

"  Yes,"  she  replied,  straightening  up  in  her  rock 
ing-chair  and  leaning  forward  toward  him,  with 
clasped  hands  and  eyes  dilated :  he  had  never 
seen  them  so  deep.  "Yes,  I  do.  I  wish  —  you 
would,  Mr.  Sonderby.  I  should  —  feel  —  easier." 
She  sunk  back,  at  these  last  words,  as  if  finishing 
a  confession. 

He  hesitated.  "  There's  the  academy ;  I  told 
Mr.  Ellerton  I  would  stay  another  year."  It  was 
only  an  attempt  to  gain  time  for  a  moment's  more 
thought. 

"  There  are  a  dozen  others  who  want  the  place," 
she  said,  quickly ;  "  there  always  are.  You  can 
resign  —  if  you  wish  to."  She  lay  back  in  her 
chair,  her  breath  coming  quickly,  her  eyes  fastened 
on  his  honest,  troubled  face. 

"  I  will,"  he  said,  rising  slowly  to  his  feet.  "  I 
will  go  to-morrow.  I  have  been  all  summer  mak 
ing  up  my  mind,  Mrs.  Floyd,  but  I  could  never 


326  THE  BROUGHTON  HOUSE. 

know  quite  what  to  do.  It  was  first  one  thing 
and  then  another.  I  am  going  now,  because  you 
tell  me  to.  If  anything  comes  of  it  down  there  — 
oh,  I  shall  work  hard  and  I  can  make  a  place  for 
myself !  —  I  shall  thank  you  for  sending  me." 

"  To-morrow  ?  "  she  cried,  with  a  curious  eager 
ness.  "  You  will  really  go  to-morrow  ?  Oh,  I  am 
so  glad !  "  She  rose  too,  but  she  rested  one  hand 
on  the  table,  and  she  was  shivering  again.  His 
03^6  swept  over  the  barely  furnished  and  low-ceiled 
room,  with  its  rag  carpet,  battered  soapstone  stove, 
rickety  furniture,  and  its  oval-framed  pictures  of 
Aunt  Tryphena  and  Aunt  Tryphosa  on  the  wall. 

"Ought  you  to  try  to  stay  here,  Mrs.  Floyd?" 
he  asked,  in  a  low  voice.  "  It  will  be  very  lonety. 
Wouldn't  you  better  go  to  your  aunt  ?  " 

"  My  aunt  ?  Oh  !  Aunt  Tryphosa  ?  "  she  asked. 
"  No ;  I  don't  like  Brooklyn.  I  shall  get  along.  It 
will  be  all  right." 

John  Sonderby  put  out  his  hand,  admiring  her 
bravery.  "  You  have  lots  of  pluck,"  he  exclaimed. 
"  I  don't  understand  it." 

She  took  his  brown  hand  in  both  her  trembling 
ones,  but  she  did  not  look  him  in  the  face. 

"  Oh,"   he   cried,   "  I  go   out  so   much   happier 
than  when  I  came  in  !    It  is  all  clear  to  me  now  - 
what  I  ought  to  do,  I  mean ;  and  how  brave  you 
are ! " 

"  Oh,  don't,  don't !  "  she  said.  "  I  haven't  done 
right.  But  I  was  kind  of  desperate." 


THE  BROVGHTOS   HOUSE.  327 

"  I  know,"  he  murmured.  "  It  has  been  too  bad ; 
I  know  how  hard  it  has  been." 

She  stopped  him  with  a  convulsive  pressure  of 
her  hands  and  a  great  effort  of  self-control. 
%*  Never  mind.  That's  all  past  now,  Mr.  Sonderby. 
You  would  have  done  anything  for  me — I  knew 
it  all  the  time.  But  it  just  couldn't  be  helped. 
Good  night.  And  you  will  surely  go  to-morrow  ?  " 

44  To-morrow ;  yes.  Good  night.  Mrs.  Floyd. 
We  won't  say  good  by  now." 

44  No,  not  good  by.  Oh,  no  !  Good  night." 
And  woman-like  she  had  strength  enough  to  stand 
there  and  smile  gently  at  him  till  he  had  closed 
the  door  and  gone  out. 

But  John  Sonderby  strode  back  over  the  wet 
grass  of  the  cottage  yard,  and  through  the  noisy, 
bustling  hall  of  the  Broughton  House,  and  up 
to  his  room,  with  a  great  happiness  in  his  heart. 
The  world  seemed  sane  and  sweet  to  him.  She 
was  a  brave  woman  and  a  true  woman,  and  if  she 
had  given  him  cause  for  misjudging  her,  there  was 
plenty  of  excuse  for  her.  But  all  that  was  past,  as 
she  had  said.  The  lono-  weeks  of  uncertainty,  of 

O  v    • 

temptation,  of  idling,  of  crazy  dreams,  of  irresolu 
tion,  the  days  of  black  suspicion  and  self-shame ; 
those  terrible  minutes  when  his  life  had  seemed  to 
stop  and  then  slowly  start  again ;  —  it  was  all  be 
hind  him  now.  He  had  pulled  through.  There 
was  clear  water  ahead  of  him.  What  had  done  it  ? 
Was  it  his  own  staying-power?  He  felt  too  much 


328  THE  BEOUGHTON  HOUSE. 

shame  at  himself  to  think  that.  Was  it  then  simply 
a  happening,  a  kind  of  luck  ?  Down  in  his  secret 
soul  he  knew  better  than  that ;  and  there  in  his 
dimly  lighted  room,  while  people  were  waltzing 
underneath,  and  Bill  Trumbull  sat  wondering  why 
he  did  not  come  down,  John  Sonderby  dropped 
upon  his  knees,  for  the  first  time  in  many  a  year, 
and  what  was  left  of  his  pride  and  selfishness  went 
out  of  his  heart,  and  a  peace,  deeper  than  any  he 
had  guessed  at  in  orchard  and  swale,  flowed  into 
it.  It  was  a  long  time  before  he  rose,  and  the 
dancing  had  ceased  underneath ;  Bill  Trumbull 
had  gone  home,  and  the  lights  were  out  in  the 
office.  The  divine  peace  was  in  the  young  fellow's 
breast,  and  it  lay  all  about  and  around  his  human 
purpose,  enfolding  it.  To  make  a  man  of  himself, 
to  go  where  human  life  was  thick  and  the  push 
was  keen  and  strong,  to  earn  a  place  there  by  using 
the  talent  that  had  been  given  him,  to  work  with 
hope  and  courage  and  belief,  with  a  heart  open  to 
his  humankind, — that  was  Avhat  John  Sonderby 
with  God's  help  meant  to  do. 

While  he  lay  awake  that  night,  —  for  things  so 
new  and  beautiful  and  far-reaching  were  in  his 
mind  that  he  could  not  easily  fall  to  sleep,  — he 
remembered  that  he  had  not  carried  out  his  inten 
tion  of  calling  at  the  parsonage,  and  he  began 
to  think  about  Mrs.  Ellerton,  and  what  she  said 
to  him  one  rainy  evening.  He  believed  she  must 
have  meant  the  same  things  that  were  now  in  his 


THE  BROUGHTOX  HOUSE.  329 

own  will  to  do,  and  he  wondered  if  she  had  been 
thinking  about  him  sometimes  in  all  this  interval, 
and  if,  when  he  went  to  say  good  by  to  her  on  the 
morrow,  he  would  dare  tell  her  in  what  new  spirit 
he  was  going  away. 

When  the  morrow  came,  the  bright,  clear  mor 
row,  and  John  Sonderby  had  packed  his  books  and 
his  scanty  wardrobe,  and  paid  his  bill  at  the 
Broughton  House,  and  had  bidden  his  friends  in  the 
village  good  by.  —  there  were  far  more  of  them  than 
he  had  ever  realized,  —  he  went  up  to  the  parson 
age  and  found  Ruth  Ellerton  there  alone.  He  left 
his  resignation  as  academy  teacher,  to  be  given  to 
her  husband,  and  he  told  her,  albeit  a  little  shyly 
-he,  the  stout,  brown-bearded  fellow  —  that  he 
hoped  his  days  of  purposeless  work  were  over. 

It  was  easier  than  he  thought  it  would  be ;  for 
she  seemed  to  understand  him  almost  before  he 
spoke,  and  the  beautiful  gray  eyes  were  soft  and 
bright  as  she  bade  him  good  by,  and  she  said  noth 
ing  of  her  own  and  her  husband's  disappointment 
in  not  having  him  longer  in  Broughton,  for  she 
saw  clearly  enough  that  it  would  be  better  for  him 
to  go. 

There  was  one  more  farewell  for  the  school 
teacher  to  leave ;  but  when  he  stopped  at  the  cot 
tage,  the  door  was  locked,  and  he  found  that  Mrs. 
Floyd  had  persuaded  Bill  Trumbull  to  go  berrying 
with  her.  He  did  not  perceive  that  she  had  done 
it  to  avoid  saying  good  by,  and  persisted  in  waiting 


330  THE  &ROUGHTON  HOUSE. 

till  the  last  minute  in  hope  of  their  return.  But 
the  berry-pickers  were  very  deliberate  that  day, 
and  finally  Sonderby  had  to  get  into  the  wagon, 
in  front  of  his  box  of  books  and  his  old  hair  trunk, 
and  drive  off  for  the  Center,  without  waiting 
longer  for  them.  On  the  way  he  met  Collins, 
who  was  driving  up  to  Broughton,  and  Sonderby 
had  to  stop  and  explain  briefly  that  he  was  going 
to  Boston,  after  all,  though  probably  he  would  not 
be  with  the  A.  S.  &  F.  people.  Collins  expressed 
gratification  at  the  decision,  and  sincerely,  for  he 
drove  on  smiling,  after  Sonderby  had  disappeared. 
This  delay  was  a  brief  one,  but  it  was  enough  to 
make  Sonderby  miss  the  express,  and  he  was 
obliged  to  stay  over  night  in  the  Center. 


XV. 


"  THEEE  will  be  another  month,"  Floyd  had 
muttered  on  that  hot  July  morning  when  the 
sparrow  was  twittering  in  the  lilacs  outside  the 
cottage  window,  and  the  artist  and  his  wife  were 
looking  at  each  other  over  old  Watson's  letter,  as 
it  lay  between  them  on  the  floor.  It  was  August 
now.  The  month  had  slipped  away,  as  all  months 
will.  The  crisis  in  the  married  life  of  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Floyd  had  passed,  and  its  ending  was  a  mean 
and  pitiful  one:  Floyd  had  slunk  away  without 
facing  her  at  the  last,  though  he  had  thus  spared 
himself  and  her  the  ignominy  of  making  and  listen 
ing  to  excuses.  Yet  the  fact  itself  was  enough. 
Their  experiment,  as  Mrs.  Floyd  had  surmised  in 
those  mornings  when  she  posed  for  him  by  the 
w^ell-curb,  their  three  years'  experiment,  was  indeed 
over.  Other  things,  too,  had  those  serene  and 
silent  July  days  seen  change.  The  reticent,  brown- 
bearded  schoolmaster,  with  his  irresolute  eyes,  had 
learned  a  harder  lesson  than  ever  he  had  set,  and 
had  turned  his  back  on  Broughton  forever,  but 
with  no  bitterness  of  heart ;  rather  with  the  joyous 
power  of  one  who  has  just  come  to  his  own. 

Collins,  that  triumphant  fisherman  and  idler. 

331 


332  THE  BROUGHTON  HOUSE. 

had  finished  his  summer's  fishing  and  his  summer's 
amusement  —  almost.  As  for  the  other  people 
whom  chance  had  thrown  in  the  way  of  the  four 
persons  above  mentioned,  there  Avas  no  particular 
reason  why  the  first  days  of  August  should  find 
them  very  different  from  what  they  were  in  the 
first  days  of  July.  Human  nature,  like  the  great 
Mother  Nature  herself,  is  averse  to  violent  change. 
Mother  Nature  deceives  us,  to  be  sure,  by  crooning 
us  to  sleep  and  bandaging  our  eyes ;  and  we  open 
them  again  to  find  that  she  has  tricked  us  and 
made  very  sudden  changes  indeed  while  we  were 
not  watching.  If  we  are  vexed  at  it,  and  press 
her  for  the  secret,  all  she  whispers  to  us  is  that 
what  seems  so  sudden  has  been  long  preparing,  if 
we  could  but  have  known  it.  Perhaps  human 
nature  may  have  caught  this  trick  from  the  old 
Mother,  and  might  answer,  if  pressed  close,  that 
everything  which  showed  itself  during  that  month, 
in  the  four  "regulars"  at  the  Broughton  House, 
had  been  long  preparing ;  that  the  real  causes  were 
far  back  of  those  idle  weeks  of  summer. 

But  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ellerton,  for  instance,  seemed 
to  be  just  what  they  were  when  John  Sonderby 
went  there  to  tea.  They  had  been  busy  all  the 
time  with  a  hundred  solicitudes  and  responsibil 
ities  whose  extent  the  Broughton  people  never 
guessed,  and  of  which  the  minister  and  his  wife 
did  not  often  talk,  except  to  each  other.  They 
had  been  happy,  too,  as  well  as  busy,  but  that  was 


THE  13ROUGHTOS  HOUSE.  333 

their  own  affair.  They  did  not  know  much  more 
at  the  end  of  the  month  about  John  Sonderby  and 
their  other  acquaintances  in  the  Broughton  House 
group  than  the}*  did  at  the  beginning,  to  tell 
the  truth,  though  Sonderby 's  brief  parting  call 
at  the  parsonage  left  Ruth  Ellerton  mystically 
happy.  She  tried  to  communicate  her  happiness 
to  Arthur,  but  his  vexation  at  the  man's  leaving 
the  academy  in  the  lurch  made  him  for  the  moment 
sympathize  less  warmly  than  he  ought  with  her 
rapturous  announcement  that  Mr.  Sonderby  had 
gone  to  Boston,  with  a  "  real  purpose  —  the  best 
purpose,  Arthur."  Yes,  the  atmosphere  of  the  par 
sonage  remained  much  what  it  was  when  Arthur 
Ellerton  joked  his  enthusiastic  wife  about  the 
"germ"'  that  she  professed  to  discover  in  the 
school-teacher. 

As  for  Bill  Trumbull,  he  had  had  one  of  the 
pleasantest  summers  in  his  long  list,  long  actually, 
—  for  Bill  was  nearer  sixty  than  fifty  —  but  marvel 
lously  extended  if  any  one  undertook  to  compute 
the  length  of  time  necessary  for  the  occurrence  of 
those  manifold  events  of  which  Bill  preserved 
such  a  remarkable  recollection.  There  had  been 
but  two  drawbacks  to  his  enjoyment  of  the  past 
month :  Evans  had  been  increasingly  disrespect 
ful  ;  and  secondly,  what  the  committee  from 
Collins  Mills  Junction  had  told  him  about  the 
sport-loving  manufacturer  had  given  Trumbull's 
tolerant  faith  in  human  nature  a  decided  jar.  But 


334  THE  BROUGIITON  HOUSE. 

he  kept  his  chair  in  the  Broughton  House  office, 
nevertheless,  smoking  his  pipe  and  stroking  reflec 
tively  his  yellow  beard,  and  by  dint  of  turning  his 
benevolent  blue  eyes  invitingly  upon  all  recent 
arrivals  at  the  hotel,  he  succeeded  in  making  many 
a  new  acquaintance  wherewith  to  solace  himself 
for  the  absence  or  deterioration  of  the  old  ones. 

It  was  the  best  month's  business  that  Evans  had 
ever  seen,  and  for  the  first  time  since  he  had 
bought  out  "  Trum bull's,"  he  was  sure  of  his  ven 
ture.  The  Broughton  House  justified  itself. 
The  little  Welshman  could  thrust  his  hands  deep 
into  the  trousers  pockets  of  his  new  suit  and  jingle 
the  loose  change  there,  while  he  paced  his  new 
piazza.  He  no  longer  had  any  lingering  doubt  as  to 
the  paint,  nor  the  plumbing,  nor  the  piazza  chairs, 
nor  the  name  of  the  hotel.  The  smoking-room  had 
been  well  patronized,  and  Harpers  Weekly  had 
often  grown  quite  tattered  with  use,  before  the 
next  week's  number  came.  Best  of  all,  the  pros 
perous  month  seemed  likely  to  merge  into  one  of 
still  greater  prosperity ;  for  August  ought  by  rights 
to  bring  even  more  guests  to  Broughton  than  July 
had  done.  Evans  looked  at  Parkinson  and 
Meyer,  his  sole  rivals  in  the  business  world  of 
Broughton,  with  that  friendly  pity  which  is  born 
of  conscious  superiority.  Ah,  there  was  money  in 
a  hotel,  with  the  right  man  to  run  it ! 

Meyer  and  Parkinson  contemplated  the  Welsh 
man's  success  from  different  standpoints.  Meyer 


THE  BEOUGHTOy  HOUSE.  335 

had  known  Evans  in  the  Center,  and  found  in 
the  rapid  rise  of  the  fellow  to  an  important  posi 
tion  in  the  Brought  on  community  an  inherent 
injustice,  which  he  did  not  fail  to  point  out  to  his 
customers,  in  the  course  of  those  socialistic  dia 
tribes  with  which  the  barber  was  in  the  habit  of 
astounding  the  persons  who  sat  in  his  chair. 
Samuel  Parkinson  considered  the  prosperity  of 
the  Broughton  House  in  a  more  philosophic  light. 
Had  he  not  seen  k*  Trumbuirs  "  go  under,  in  his 
time?  "Let  the  Welshman  have  his  turn," 
reflected  the  astute  Samuel,  as  he  looked  across 
the  street,  in  those  July  afternoons,  and  saw  the 
stage  unloading  passengers  at  the  hotel.  The 
next  season  might  not  be  so  successful.  Never 
theless  in  the  meantime  Mr.  Parkinson  added  a 
new  candy  counter  to  the  attractions  of  his  store, 
—  or  his  Emporium,  as  the  advertising-boards  on 
barns  and  fences  for  a  radius  of  ten  miles  around 
called  it  —  Parkinson's  Emporium,  —  and  the  more 
children  and  young  people  there  were  at  the  hotel, 
the  more  did  the  treasurer  of  the  parish  rejoice 
in  the  good  fortune  of  his  neighbor. 

But  the  people  of  the  village,  excepting  that 
small  faction  of  them  who  believed  in  the  future 
of  Broughton  as  a  summer  resort,  and  wanted  to 
purchase  a  public  watering-cart  and  to  have  the 
houses  numbered,  the  plain  people  of  Broughton 
village  did  not  trouble  themselves  very  much  about 
the  hotel  nor  the  summer  visitors  who  came  there. 


336  THE  BEOUGHTON  HOUSE. 

Broughton  folks  were  occupied  enough,  that  July, 
in  looking  out  for  their  own  interests  and  the  af 
fairs  of  their  next-door  neighbors.  Quietly  had 
the  days  of  the  month  gone  by  in  the  white  houses 
up  and  down  Main  Street,  under  the  shadow  of 
the  elms.  Sleepily  had  the  little  village  drawn  its 
breath,  waking  each  afternoon  at  mail-time  to  a 
weak  pretence  of  life,  only  to  relapse  into  somno 
lence.  Out  upon  the  farms,  scattered  over  the 
surrounding  hills,  there  was  the  unchanged,  une 
ventful  existence,  the  same  round  of  tranquil  days, 
which  left  when  the  month  was  over  only  the  gen 
eral  impression  that  the  season  was,  on  the  whole, 
late  and  rather  cold.  Over  hotel  and  village, 
farms  and  hills,  had  swept  each  day  the  steady 
sun,  careless  whether  its  rays  warmed  to  life  or 
parched  to  death,  or  whether  they  were  chilled 
and  hidden  altogether  in  the  storms  of  rain.  Oh, 
the  impartial  sun  and  the  unknowing  rain,  that 
poured  down  upon  this  upland  country  when  there 
was  nothing  but  primeval  forest  there  and  no  hu 
man  cheeks  to  be  warmed  or  wet,  that  will  ages 
hence  pour  down,  impartial  and  unknowing,  when 
mayhap  every  trace  of  human  life  shall  have  van 
ished  and  all  is  savagery  again,  how  much  do  they 
survive ! 

The  month  was  over,  and  Tryphena  Morton 
Floyd  had  endured  to  the  end.  It  had  been  a 
hard  time,  and  lonely.  In  the  innermost  chambers 
of  her  heart,  where  the  struggle  had  taken  place, 


THE  BROUGHTOS   HOUSE.  337 

there  was  no  one  by  to  help  her.  She  had  made 
no  effort  to  retain  her  husband,  nor  had  she  ever 
referred,  in  talking  with  him,  to  the  possible  event 
of  his  going  away.  She  had  taken  it  for  granted 
that  he  would  leave  her  when  the  time  came. 
Reasoning  from  his  standpoint,  as  she  had  once 
or  twice  tried  to  do,  she  could  find  no  very  great 
obstacle  to  his  going,  since  it  was  obvious  that  it 
did  not  lie  within  her  power  to  make  him  happy. 
Obligations  which  she  felt  were  binding  upon  her 
self,  she  knew  instinctively  were  not  recognized 
by  her  artist  husband.  Billy  was  different  from 
other  folks.  He  had  to  be  satisfied,  or  to  think 
he  was  satisfied,  with  his  surroundings,  before  he 
could  do  any  work.  She  had  failed  to  satisfy  him. 
It  was  humiliating,  for  the  country  girl  was  in  her 
own  way  proud.  It  was  heart-breaking,  for  she 
had  loved  him.  She  was  too  clear-headed  to  un 
derestimate  her  own  loss,  or  to  make  herself  be 
lieve  that  there  was  anything  left  for  her  when  she 
felt  well  enough  that  there  was  nothing.  Never 
theless,  to  the  very  last,  she  had  tried  to  do  her 
duty  by  him.  Was  not  her  own  figure,  in  the 
picture  Floyd  had  painted  to  earn  his  deliverance, 
the  seal  of  her  wifely  obedience  ? 

There  had  been,  indeed,  especially  in  the  closing 
days  of  her  probation,  certain  times  when  an  inner 
revolt  against  what  seemed  her  fate  would  mani 
fest  itself,  and  carry  her  actions  almost  beyond  her 
control.  For  instance,  there  was  John  Sonderbv. 


338  THE  BROUGHTON    HOUSE. 

She  had  liked  him  from  the  very  first ;  by  and  by, 
after  the  morning  they  had  spent  in  her  cottage, 
she  began  to  suspect  that  he  cared  for  her,  and  she 
pitied  him.  She  did  not  mean  to  lay  her  hand  on 
his  arm,  the  day  of  the  runaway ;  she  cried  over  it 
afterward,  but  she  could  not  help  it  at  the  time. 
Afterwards  she  grew  to  think  she  had  been  mis 
taken  in  imagining  he  had  cared  for  her  at  all,  and 
it  made  her  ashamed  and  angry  with  herself  to  re 
flect  what  her  thoughts  had  been,  and  perhaps,  too, 
it  made  her  a  little  out  of  temper  with  the  school 
teacher.  It  was  just  at  this  time  that  Collins 
began  to  pay  her  increased  attention,  and  she  had 
permitted  it,  partly  out  of  ignorance,  partly  out  of 
desperation,  and  perhaps  out  of  a  strange  defiance 
of  what  she  felt  to  be  Sonderby's  yearning  respect 
for  her.  But  she  had  never  meant  to  let  matters 
go  so  far.  Collins  had  treated  her  with  a  kindness 
and  politeness  such  as  she  was  unused  to ;  he  was 
much  older  than  the  rest  of  them,  and  had  his  own 
way ;  he  treated  her  half  like  a  child  and  half  like 
a  great  lady.  She  had  felt,  on  that  Sunday  when 
he  asked  her  to  drive,  as  if  she  must  do  something 
or  she  would  die,  and  so  she  had  gone  with  him, 
though  she  knew  perfectly  well  that  neither  Trum- 
bull  nor  Sonderby  would  exactly  approve  of  it. 
Then  had  come  that  day  of  the  fishing  excursion, 
when  Mr.  Collins  had  come  back  unexpectedly  from 
the  swamp,  seated  himself  beside  her,  and  had  talked 
so  strangely  that  he  had  frightened  her  a  little. 


THE  BROUGHTON  HOUSE.  339 

She  had  felt  his  arm  on  the  back  of  the  seat  behind 
her;  she  had  been  afraid  to  speak  out,  she  had 
thought  of  a  dozen  excuses  to  make  in  order  to 
get  up;  and  then  John  Sonderby  had  marched  up 
the  lonely  road  with  his  eyes  on  them,  and  she  was 
mortified  and  provoked,  and  had  waved  her  para 
sol  to  Mr.  Collins  on  purpose,  to  show  John  Son- 
derby  that  she  should  do  as  she  liked. 

The  very  next  day  Billy  had  gone.  He  had  not 
even  said  good  by  to  her.  Oh,  the  terrible  day ! 
Yet  she  had  not  shed  a  tear,  she  said  no  word  to 
herself;  she  had  no  thoughts,  no  mind  at  all.  It 
was  as  if  she  had  been  under  an  enchantment, 
where  all  things  about  her  moved,  and  she  only 
was  without  motion,  without  will.  It  was  so  piti 
ful  to  have  it  all  end  that  way,  —  all  her  dreams, 
her  hopes,  her  brief  happiness.  Yet  there  was 
nothing  to  be  done.  She  had  borne  her  burden, 
and  at  last  the  end  had  come.  In  the  evening  Mr. 
Collins  had  taken  her  to  drive.  She  did  not  re 
member  his  asking  her  to  go,  nor  why  she  went. 
She  seemed  to  have  no  voice  in  the  matter.  It  was 
the  enchanted  country  again.  But  she  was  awak 
ened  rudely.  Somewhere,  out  on  the  moonlit  road, 
she  became  conscious  of  what  he  was  saying,  of  the 
shameful  plan  he  was  rapidly  rehearsing,  with  his 
face  turned  toward  her.  Her  mind  came  back  at 
the  shock ;  she  saw  his  whole  plot  in  an  instant, 
and  with  the  cunning  instinct  of  helplessness  she 
had  wits  enough  for  deception :  she  whispered  a 


340  THE  BROUGHT  ON  HOUSE. 

shuddering  assent;  and  she  got  him  to  take  her 
back  to  the  cottage  and  promise  not  to  see  her 
again  until  the  time  came.  He  went  away,  believ 
ing  she  would  keep  her  whispered  word;  and  Mrs. 
Floyd,  her  mind  beginning  to  lose  its  hold  again, 
and  her  body  worn  out  by  sleepless  nights,  flung 
herself  upon  the  bed  in  what  had  become  once 
more  Aunt  Tryphena's  chamber,  and  slept  like  an 
exhausted  child. 

When  she  woke  the  next  morning,  Thursday, 
there  was  the  least  touch  of  autumn  in  the  air, 
though  it  was  only  early  August.  A  spray  of 
golden-rod,  in  the  back  yard  of  the  cottage,  by  the 
fence,  was  beginning  to  turn  yellow.  Tryphena 
noticed  it  when  she  went  out  to  the  well  to  draw 
water  with  which  to  prepare  her  solitary  breakfast, 
for  she  was  not  able  any  longer  to  go  to  the  hotel 
for  meals.  She  might  meet  Collins.  She  was  afraid 
to  go  alone,  knowing  what  had  become  of  her  hus 
band,  —  and  then,  she  had  no  money.  "  Autumn 
is  coming,"  she  thought,  as  the  golden-rod  caught 
her  eye.  Autumn  already!  Why  not?  It  was 
just  as  well.  Mrs.  Floyd  was  entirely  composed 
that  morning,  and  looked  upon  her  life  as  if  it  lay 
behind  her  like  a  clear,  gray,  autumnal  landscape. 
She  was  no  longer  a  part  of  it.  She  had  travelled 
over  it  indeed,  but  had  now  passed  beyond  it.  She 
had  walked  faithfully  to  the  very  end,  as  faithfully 
as  she  could.  But  she  was  tired  now ;  she  had  no 
desire  to  enter  upon  any  new  road,  to  cross  any 


THE  BROUGHT  ON  HOUSE.  341 

novel  tract  of  country.  She  did  not  feel  strong- 
enough  to  go  on,  nor  could  she  see  any  use  in  try 
ing.  She  remembered  perfectly  well,  now,  what 
Collins  had  said  the  night  before.  Words  whose 
utterance  had  seemed  to  make  no  impression  upon 
her  senses  at  the  time,  recalled  themselves  exactly. 
How  quietly  and  skilfully  the  sportsman  had  drawn 
the  network  of  his  plans !  He  was  in  possession 
of  her  promise.  But  was  life  worth  having  upon 
those  terms  ?  Tryphena  shuddered ;  not  with  the 
insane  terror  she  had  felt  the  night  before,  but  with 
the  shame  of  an  honest  woman,  bred  in  the  moral 
traditions  of  a  Xew  England  ancestry.  As  girl 
and  woman,  she  had  always  been  scrupulous  of  her 
name,  until  in  the  desperation  of  these  last  weeks 
she  had  possibly  compromised  herself.  There  was 
one  person  more  than  any  other  by  whom  she 
dreaded  to  be  misunderstood,  and  her  strongest 
desire,  throughout  that  slow-dragging  day,  was  to 
see  John  Sonderby,  to  make  herself  right  in  his 
eyes  while  there  was  yet  time. 

When  evening  came  and  she  spied  Calvin  John 
son's  buckboard  bringing  the  school-teacher  back 
to  the  Broughton  House,  she  summoned  up  all  her 
resolution,  as  one  gathers  and  blows  upon  embers 
that  have  already  served  too  long,  and  went  out 
to  watch  for  him.  It  was  a  hard  thing  to  do,  to 
call  him  into  the  cottage  and  tell  him  what  she  did, 
but  it  was  an  expiation  of  all  her  folly.  She  saw 
too  that  Sonderby  believed  in  her,  that  he  was  still 


342  THE  BEOUGHTON  HOUSE. 

ready  to  be  influenced  by  her,  and  this  gave  her 
audacity  to  try  to  accomplish  that  for  which  she 
had  scarcely  dared  to  hope.  She  had  longed  all 
day  to  have  the  school-teacher  leave  Broughton,  as 
soon  as  she  had  seen  him  and  made  that  pitiful  in 
tercession  for  herself.  She  had  always  read  him 
well,  and  knew  that  his  future  would  be  richer  if 
he  went  to  his  own  proper  work ;  but  it  was  not 
for  that  simply  that  she  now  wished  to  have  him 
go.  It  was  for  something  else,  —  for  her  own  sake 
and  for  his.  When  she  watched  him  hesitate,  and 
pushed  her  entreaty,  and  finally  saw  him  yield  and 
heard  him  say  that  he  would  go,  —  and  that  upon 
the  morrow, — her  heart,  which  had  never  claimed 
very  much  as  its  own  portion  in  the  world,  was 
satisfied.  It  was  too  late  for  anything  to  bring  her 
happiness,  but  John  Sonderby's  belief  in  her  and 
obedience  to  her  wishes  brought  her  a  kind  of 
peace. 

Strong  as  she  was  in  many  ways,  she  could  not 
bid  him  good  by,  and  partly  for  that  reason  she 
persuaded  Bill  Trumbull  to  go  berrying  with  her, 
Friday  morning,  an  hour  before  the  time  when  she 
knew  Mr.  Sonderby  would  be  starting  for  the 
Center.  Trumbull  never  needed  much  persuasion 
to  accompany  Tryphena,  and  they  wandered 
through  the  pastures  above  the  Hollow  for  two  or 
three  hours,  picking  some  early  blackberries,  and 
a  few  late  raspberries.  Bill  kept  putting  the 
largest  ones  into  her  pail,  just  as  he  had  done  often 


THE  BROUGHTON  HOUSE.  343 

when  she  was  a  girl.  She  smiled  her  thanks  to 
him  each  time,  though  she  was  so  silent  during  the 
whole  ramble  that  Bill  decided  that  she  was  miss 
ing  her  husband  more  than  he  had  u  callated,"  and 
he  tried  in  his  fatherly  fashion  to  impress  upon  her 
that  two  weeks  would  go  quickly.  Trumbull 
could  not  imagine  what  should  keep  the  artist  so 
long  in  New  York,  but  he  regretfully  abstained 
from  making  any  inquisitive  remarks.  The  old 
hotel-keeper's  kindly,  simple  chatter  was  soothing 
to  her ;  it  reminded  her  of  such  far-away  things,  of 
the  time  when  he  used  to  bring  her  home  from 
berrying,  upon  his  shoulder,  while  her  chubby 
fingers  were  twisting  his  yellow  beard.  The  air 
was  sweet  and  cool,  and  the  pastures  were  still, 
solitary.  The  year,  in  the  full  burden  of  its  bear 
ing  season,  seemed  to  drowse,  in  prevision  of  its 
time  of  rest.  Yet  if  anything  could  have  won  Mrs. 
Floyd  back,  it  would  seem  that  the  gentleness  of 
that  bright  day,  and  the  companionship  of  her 
sympathetic,  garrulous  old  friend,  might  have  done 
so.  Bill  Trumbull  was  so  human,  so  much  a  part 
of  the  world  that  now  is  ! 

It  was  an  hour  after  noon  when  they  returned. 
Mrs.  Floyd  yielded  to  Bill's  invitation,  and  went 
over  with  him  to  Mirandy's  for  dinner.  The 
presence  of  Mrs.  Floyd  saved  Bill  from  the  scold 
ing  his  punctual  daughter  had  in  store  for  him, 
and  Mirandy  thought  that  Tryphena  seemed  very 
friendly  and  natural,  and  that  perhaps  she  herself 


344  THE  BEOUGHTON  HOUtiE. 

had  been  too  sharp-tongue d  in  criticising  the  way 
Mrs.  Floyd  had  "  gone  on  with  that  Collins  man." 
Trypheny  Morton  always  had  her  queer  streaks, 
but  she  wan't  any  worse  than  other  folks,  after  all. 
Such  was  the  considerate  conclusion  of  Mirandy. 
After  dinner  Mrs.  Floyd  went  back  to  the  cottage, 
and  locking  the  front  door  behind  her,  sat  down 
in  her  rocking-chair  by  the  window.  She  was 
strong,  though  not  strong  enough  for  life ;  brave, 
though  not  brave  enough  for  life.  Yet  once,  in 
that  long,  lonely  afternoon,  her  heart  almost  failed 
her.  But  just  then  there  was  the  grating  of  wheels 
on  the  hotel  driveway;  she  peered  out  and  saw 
Collins's  dark,  smiling  face,  and  strength  and  bra 
very  came  back  to  her,  sufficiently. 

Mr.  Bruce  D.  Collins,  having  had  the  satisfaction 
of  seeing  the  spindles  start  again  at  the  Collins 
Mills,  had  come  back  to  Broughton  to  get — -what 
belonged  to  him.  He  spent  an  hour  or  so  in  his 
room,  packing,  and  elaborating  a  brief  explanation 
which  he  proposed  to  make  to  Evans.  This  latter 
task  had  given  him  some  trouble  for  a  couple  of 
days;  but  Collins  felt  that  something  of  the  sort 
was,  on  the  whole,  necessary,  and  that  Evans 
would  feel  it  was  his  own  interest  to  believe  what 
was  told  him.  The  plan  was  a  trifle  daring,  but 
perhaps  none  the  less  likely  to  succeed  on  that 
account. 

"  Evans,"  said  Collins,  gravely,  when  the  chamber 
maid  had  summoned  the  Welshman  to  Collins's 


THE  BROrKHTOX   HOUSE.  345 


room,  •'  I  want  the  buggy  hitched  up  at  ten-thirty, 
to-night." 

The  hotel  proprietor  bowed. 

"I've  got  a  telegram  from  Mr.  Floyd,"  the 
manufacturer  continued.  -'-  He  is  obliged  to  sail 
for  Hamburg  —  for  Europe  —  to-morrow,  at  nine 
o'clock.  It's  a  sudden  matter,  you  perceive,  and 
he  wants  to  have  Mrs.  Floyd  get  there  to  see  him 
off.  If  she  can  hit  the  twelve-three  express  to-night, 
she  can  make  it,  and  I'm  going  to  drive  her  to  the 
Center,  and  shall  go  down  with  her  to  Xew  York. 
It  wouldn't  do  to  have  her  start  off  like  that  alone." 

The  Welshman  nodded.  "  Is  Mr.  Floyd  to  be 
gone  long  ?  "  he  asked,  respectfully. 

"  Yes  ;    he  may  be.     It's  important  business  - 
some   painting  to  be  done,  or  something  of   that 
sort." 

"  There  is  a  little  matter  of  a  board  bill.  Thirteen 
days'  board  —  excuse  my  —  " 

"  Oh,  put  it  in  with  mine,"  interrupted  Collins, 
tersely.  "  I'll  settle  with  him.  He  went  off  in  a 
hurry." 

-Very  well,  Mr.  Collins,"  said  Evans,  smoothly. 
%<  At  ten-thirty,  you  said?  I'll  speak  to  Johnny." 

"  All    right  —  Say  !  "      Evans    closed   the    door 

O  \f 

again,  and  waited.  Collins  had  not  finished  his 
speech.  It  was  more  awkward  than  he  had  antici 
pated.  There  was  no  other  way,  though;  the 
bolder  he  was,  the  better  the  chances. 

"  If  Mr.  Floyd  doesn't  come  back  pretty  soon, 


346  THE  BEOUGHTON  HOUSE. 

she  may  have  to  do  something  for  a  living  in  the 
meantime.  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  she  would  go 
into  my  mills,  as  a  typewriter,  or  —  book-keeper." 

The  little  black  eyes  of  the  Welshman  were 
cocked  astutely,  but  he  made  no  reply. 

"  That's  all,  Evans,"  remarked  Mr.  Collins,  with 
the  slightest  expression  of  relief.  "And  —  you've 
taken  pretty  good  care  of  me  this  summer,"  and 
he  pushed  a  roll  of  bills  into  the  fingers  of  the  sur 
prised  Welshman,  who  kept  the  money,  neverthe 
less,  and  backed  out  of  the  door,  bowing  deeply. 
He  ran  his  thumb  through  the  bills  as  he  crept 
down  stairs.  Collins  had  never  feed  him  before. 
Why  this  time  ?  As  he  passed  noiselessly  through 
the  smoking-room,  he  caught  sight  of  a  New  York 
paper,  and  had  a  sudden  curiosity,  which  it  took 
but  a  moment  to  satisfy.  The  Hamburg  steamer 
was  advertised  to  sail,  not  at  nine  in  the  morning, 
but  at  three  in  the  afternoon.  Collins  had  been 
lying  to  him.  The  knowing  little  Welshman 
thrust  his  hand  into  his  trousers  pocket  again, 
and  grasped  the  bills  as  if  to  assure  himself  of  the 
reality  of  the  experience  through  which  he  had 
passed,  and  then  with  a  shrug  of  his  shoulders  and 
a  weasel  glance  around  the  empty  smoking-room, 
he  gave  vent  to  his  opinion  in  a  single  sarcastic 
ejaculation  :  "  Book-keeper  !  " 

It  was  four  o'clock.  In  spite  of  the  hot  sun 
shine  that  now  flooded  the  western  end  of  the 
hotel  piazza,  a  crowd  of  guests  were  huddled 


THE  BBOUGHTOX  HOUSE.  347 

there,  watching  a  tennis  match  upon  the  court 
below  them.  The  playing  was  spirited,  and  there 
was  frequent  spatting  of  hands  and  quick  cries  of 
excitement,  at  the  more  brilliant  strokes.  The 
Broughton  House  had  lost  altogether  the  air  of 
emptiness,  of  pretence,  which  it  had  worn  earlier 
in  the  season.  Everything  was  going  very  well 
there,  very  well  indeed.  Even  the  arrival  of  the 
stage  this  afternoon  failed  to  attract  interest  away 
from  the  game,  and  the  only  persons  who  paid 
any  attention  to  it  were  Evans,  who  assigned  Son- 
derby's  room  to  a  newcomer,  and  Collins,  who 
came  down  to  the  piazza  to  give  the  driver  explicit 
directions  about  taking  his  trunks  to  the  Center 
in  the  morning.  The  driver  was  repeating  these 
directions  to  himself  so  assiduously,  as  he  drove 
up  the  sleepy  street,  that  he  forgot  to  take  off  his 
hat  to  Mrs.  Ellerton,  who  had  once  shaken  hands 
with  him  after  a  Young  People's  Society  of  Chris 
tian  Endeavor  meeting  into  which  he  had  strayed, 
and  who  now  bowed  so  friendly  to  him  from  the 
sidewalk,  as  almost  to  make  him  vow  to  go  to 
the  meeting  again. 

Mi's.  Ellerton  had  come  out  to  make  a  call. 
Arrayed  in  her  gray  Henrietta  and  her  best  bonnet, 
carrying  her  ivory  card-case  in  one  hand  and  her 
parasol  in  the  other,  she  was  a  very  attractive- 
looking  parson's  wife,  and  the  stage-driver  might 
well  turn  to  look  at  her  as  her  tall  figure  wound  in 
and  out  among  the  elm-trees  that  encroached  upon 


348  THE  BROUGHTON  HOUSE. 

the  narrow  sidewalk.  She  was  very  happy  and 
contented  that  afternoon,  albeit  her  face  was 
graver  than  usual.  She  had  been  reading,  since 
dinner  the  concluding  article  of  a  series  upon 
"Divorce,"  in  one  of  her  favorite  Reviews,  and 
the  statistics  as  to  the  moral  life  of  her  beloved 
New  England  had  shocked  her,  accustomed  even 
as  she  was  to  the  consideration  of  social  questions. 
It  was  inexpressibly  painful  to  think  that  there 
was  such  selfishness  and  animalism  left  in  the 
world,  even  here  in  the  beautiful  old  New  England 
towns,  where  truth  had  been  taught  so  constantly. 
But  no  shadow  could  rest  very  long  upon  Ruth 
Ellerton's  pure,  strong  face,  and  more  than  one 
thing  happened,  as  she  went  down  the  street,  to 
recall  her  from  painful  thoughts  to  her  own  happy 
work  here  in  Broughton.  There  was  the  sight  of 
the  stage-driver,  for  instance  ;  how  little  did  the 
lanky  fellow  suspect  that  behind  that  charming 
bow  there  lurked  a  plot  for  his  moral  amelioration  ! 
There  was  Samuel  Parkinson's  boy,  who  ran  across 
the  street  to  speak  to  her;  a  precociously  pious 
youth  who  had  been  designated  by  candid  Arthur 
Ellerton  —  in  temporary  forgetfulness  of  ministe 
rial  prudence  and  simply  in  the  presence  of  his 
wife  —  as  "a  thorough  little  ass,"  but  a  boy  never 
theless  whose  real  virtues  were  appreciated,  and 
whose  high  lights  were  being  gradually  toned 
down,  by  this  wise  and  loving  woman.  Above  all, 
there  was  the  call  she  expected  to  make,  one  re- 


THE  BEOUGHTON  HOUSE.  349 

quiring  all  her  tact  and  cheery  spirits  and  sympa 
thy  :  for  she  was  going  down,  to  the  Floyd  cottage. 
From  certain  words  dropped  by  Sonderby  when 
he  called  at  the  parsonage  that  morning,  she  had 
inferred  that  Mrs.  Floyd  was  in  some  kind  of 
trouble  and  was  left  much  to  herself.  It  seemed 
that  the  artist  had  gone  away  for  a  while,  and  that 
his  wife  was  living  all  alone  at  the  cottage.  Son- 
derby  had  even  gone  so  far  as  to  suggest,  bashfully, 
that  if  Mrs.  Ellerton  could  get  better  acquainted 
with  Mrs.  Floyd,  it  would  be  well  worth  while  —  it 
might  do  a  great  deal  of  good.  At  such  negotia 
tions  the  inventor  of  the  telephone-switch  was 
particularly  inexpert,  but  Ruth  Ellerton  needed 
no  urging  when  her  sympathy  was  touched.  Mrs. 
Floyd  had  never  returned  her  call ;  but  the  minis 
ter's  wife  could  not  stop  for  that,  if  there  was  a 
chance  of  reaching  this  slender,  dark-haired  young 
woman,  with  black  clothes  and  shy,  melancholy 
eyes.  To  fancy  her  living  all  alone  in  that  old 
house  of  her  aunt !  Mrs.  Ellerton  stepped  faster  as 
she  thought  of  it  :  she  framed  some  excuse  already 
"  for  running  in  without  waiting  for  formalities." 
She  opened  the  creaking  gate,  at  the  cottage,  and 
walked  swiftly  up  the  neglected  path  to  the  front 
door.  Upon  the  left  was  the  bench  upon  which 
she  had  sat  when  she  and  Arthur  had  made  their 
call;  but  rain-water  was  standing  in  the  hollow  of 
the  seat,  and  a  spider  had  flung  his  web  across  one 
end.  At  the  door  there  was  neither  bell  nor 


350  THE  BEOUGHTON  HOUSE. 

knocker.  Mrs.  Ellerton  rapped,  and  then  waited. 
There  was  no  response.  She  rapped  louder,  bruis 
ing  her  dainty  glove  against  the  cracked  paint. 
Still  no  answer.  She  looked  regretfully  at  the 
knuckles  of  her  gloves,  and  stooping,  picked  up  a 
little  stone  that  lay  by  the  low,  rotting  steps,  and 
rapped  sharply  with  that.  She  was  almost  ashamed 
to  make  so  much  noise.  Yet  no  one  came.  She 
hesitated.  Perhaps  she  had  misunderstood  Mr. 
Sonderby,  after  all ;  possibly  Mrs.  Floyd  had  gone 
away  too.  She  tried  the  door  softly ;  it  was 
locked.  How  very  unfortunate  !  There  was  no  use 
in  waiting  longer.  She  took  one  of  her  cards 
from  the  ivory  case,  and  slipped  it  under  the  door, 
in  the  hollow  of  the  worn  threshold.  Then  she 
looked  round  her  a  moment,  before  she  turned 
away.  The  lilac  leaves  had  grown  thick  and 
leathery,  and  there  seemed  to  be  a  dampness  in 
their  shade.  The  last  pink-edged  petals  had  long 
before  fallen  from  the  Smith  roses,  and  the  green 
rose-apples  were  forming  there  instead.  It  seemed 
as  if  such  a  long  time  had  elapsed  since  she  and 
Arthur  called  upon  the  Floyds  ;  and  the  dooryard 
had  such  an  abandoned  air !  She  was  not  sorry  to 
escape  from  the  shadow  of  the  lilacs  into  the  sun 
shine  again,  and  yet  she  was  vexed  at  not  having 
found  Mrs.  Floyd  in,  greatly  vexed  and  disap 
pointed.  She  had  had  a  sort  of  intuition  that  she 
was  needed  at  the  cottage. 

It  was  true.     It  was  a  pity  that  the  door  was 


THE  BROUGHTON   HOUSE.  351 

locked,  and  that  Mrs.  Floyd,  who  had  seen  her 
coming,  sat  quite  still  in  the  rocking-chair,  and  did 
not  rise  to  let  her  in.  That  gracious  presence, 
with  its  loving  gentleness,  its  yearning  desire  to 
be  of  help,  its  strong  vitality,  might  not  have  come 
into  the  lonely  sitting-room  too  late  to  bring  hope, 
sweet  hope  and  endurance  and  faith  for  the  things 
of  life.  But  the  heavy  door  was  locked,  and 
Tryphena  Floyd  sat  with  fixed  and  awestruck 
eyes,  hardly  hearing  Mrs.  Ellerton's  rapping ;  for 
in  her  ears  was  the  soft  rustle  and  before  her  eyes 
the  dusky  wings  of  another  hope,  the  shadowy, 
all-encompassing  hope  that  broods  sooner  or  later 
over  every  mortal  soul.  .  .  . 

Evening  came.  The  lamps  were  lit  in  the 
Broughton.  House.  Collins  came  downstairs,  hav 
ing  at  last  finished  his  packing.  The  sound  of  the 
melodeon  in  the  parlor  made  him  think  of  his 
music,  however,  and  he  went  in  and  gathered  that 
up,  taking  it  to  his  room  and  unstrapping  a  trunk 
to  put  it  away.  There  was  no  use  in  leaving  any 
thing  behind :  he  might  not  come  up  to  Broughton 
again  the  next  summer ;  perhaps  not  for  some  time. 
With  these  reflections  still  in  his  head,  he  de 
scended  to  the  office,  and  sat  down  by  the  fire 
place,  smoking  cigar  after  cigar.  He  was  rather 
ill  at  ease.  Perhaps,  he  thought,  it  had  been  fool 
ish  in  him  to  say  so  much  to  Evans ;  but  then  the 
thing  w^as  bound  to  get  out,  in  some  shape  or 
other,  and  his  own  version  would  stand  the  best 


352  THE  BEOUGHTON  HOUSE. 

chance  of  being  considered  authoritative.  The 
whole  scheme  was  pretty  bold;  somewhat  worse 
than  anything  he  had  ever  done  before ;  but  then, 
whose  business  was  it  except  his  own  —  and  hers  ? 
Everything,  too,  had  worked  to  favor  him.  He 
was  glad  Sonderby  was  out  of  the  way :  Sonderby 
was  a  good  enough  fellow,  but  queer ;  there  might 
have  been  some  kind  of  a  row.  Yes,  she  had  been 
right  in  getting  a  promise  not  to  see  her  again 
until  she  was  all  ready,  at  ten-thirty ;  it  was  a  good 
deal  safer  and  less  likely  to  make  talk  in  the  vil 
lage  ;  he  would  hardly  have  thought  that  she  had 
so  much  head  as  that,  with  only  a  minute  to  think 
it  over  in,  that  night  in  the  buggy.  She  was  deep, 
though,  like  all  of  them  !  Well,  in  two  hours  they 
would  be  off.  Not  a  soul  in  the  village  would  be 
awake  to  see  them  drive  away.  It  was  the  sim 
plest  thing  in  the  world. 

Nevertheless,  Mr.  Collins  kept  getting  more  and 
more  restless.  He  could  not  sit  still  by  the  fire 
place  any  longer,  and  took  to  pacing  the  floor  of 
the  office,  and  looking  furtively  at  his  watch  from 
time  to  time.  Bill  Trumbull  tried  to  start  one  or 
two  topics  of  conversation,  but  in  vain.  Suddenly 
Collins's  eye  fell  upon  the  fish-spear  that  was  hung 
along  one  of  the  huge  ceiling  beams,  and  he  had 
an  idea.  There  was  but  one  thing  he  had  planned 
this  summer  which  had  not  turned  out  to  suit 
him :  lie  had  failed  to  capture  the  big  trout  down 
in  the  Hollow,  lie  had  half  a  mind  to  go  down 


THE  BROUGHTOy  HOUSE.  353 

to-night  and  spear  him.  There  was  time  enough, 
and  there  would  be  some  fun  in  it.  Why  not  drive 
away  with  the  trout  under  the  buggy  seat  —  under 
their  buggy  seat  —  and  make  a  complete  thing  of 
the  summer?  He  went  to  the  side  door  of  the 
office  and  called  to  the  stable-boy,  who  was  drum 
ming  with  his  heels  on  the  side  piazza,  waiting  till 
it  was  time  to  hitch  up. 

"Johnny,  have  you  got  anything  to  do?"' 

k4Xot  yet  awhile,  sir,"  said  the  boy. 

u  Well,  put  some  oil  into  that  torch  you  had  in 
the  stable  the  other  day.  I  want  to  have  you 
come  down  to  the  Hollow  with  me,  to  see  if  we 
can't  get  that  trout."' 

Collins  climbed  up  on  a  chair,  and  pulled  down 
the  dusty  spear  from  the  hooks  on  which  it  rested. 

••  Why,  say,"  interrupted  Bill  Trumbull,  benevo 
lently,  "  I  thought  you  said  that  when  you'd  sunk 
so  low  as  to  spear  that  trout  —  " 

uls  it  any  of  your  damned  business,  Bill  Trum 
bull,  what  I  do  ?  "  cried  Collins,  glaring  down  from 
his  eminence.  The  astonished  Trumbull  made  no 
reply,  while  the  stable-boy  grinned,  and  ran  off  for 
the  torch.  The  sportsman  in  Collins  had,  indeed, 
degenerated,  too.  The  boy  came  back  in  a  few 
moments  with  his  plaything,  a  tin  can  swinging 
on  the  end  of  a  stick,  a  relic  of  the  last  presiden 
tial  campaign,  when  Broughton  had  had  the  first 
torchlight  parade  in  her  history.  Collins  got  his 
hat,  and  they  started  out,  Trumbull  looking  at 


354  THE  BEOUGHTON  HOUSE. 

them  wonderingly.  Evans  had  sidled  into  the 
office  in  time  to  hear  Collins's  outburst  against  the 
ex-proprietor  of  the  hotel.  He  could  not  resist 
the  temptation  to  add  to  Trumbull's  discomfiture 
by  showing  that  he,  Evans,  was  now  the  one  who 
enjoyed  the  manufacturer's  intimacy.  Then,  too, 
he  felt  a  sly  curiosity  to  see  how  Trumbull  would 
take  the  news  that  Mrs.  Floyd  was  going  to  New 
York  with  the  manufacturer.  There  would  be 
no  harm  in  telling  Trumbull ;  indeed  Evans  had 
rightly  suspected  that  Collins  had  wished  him  to 
repeat  the  facts  in  the  case,  just  as  they  had  been 
presented  to  him. 

"  Mr.  Collins  is  going  to  New  York,"  said  Evans, 
indifferently.  "What  do  you  think  of  the  news 
from  Floyd?" 

"  I  don't  know  any,"  replied  Bill,  sulkily. 

"Aha?  Oh,  yes.  Mrs.  Floyd  is  going  down 
with  Collins  to-night  to  see  him  off  for  Europe." 

"With  Collins  —  to-night?"  gasped  Bill,  taking 
his  pipe  out  of  his  mouth. 

"  You  didn't  know  it,  eh  ?  You  don't  keep  up 
with  the  times  very  well.  I  thought  you  knew 
everything  that  was  going  on."  The  Welshman's 
sneer  was  lost  upon  the  excited  old  man. 

"  I've  got  to  see  her  !  "  he  exclaimed,  rising  from 
his  chair,  and  rapping  the  tobacco  out  of  his  pipe. 
"  I've  kind  o'  got  to  send  a  message  by  her  —  a 
little  matter  —  "  and  he  hurried  out  of  the  side 
door,  jumped  from  the  piazza  and  was  gone,  leav- 


THE  BROVGHTOX   HOUSE.  355 

ing  the  Welshman  in  terror  lest  Oollins's  wrath 
should  descend  in  turn  upon  himself,  for  letting 
out  the  plan  too  soon.  Across  the  back  yard  of 
the  Floyd  cottage,  under  the  Seckel  pear-trees, 
hastened  Bill  Trumbull,  with  the  activity  of  a  man 
thirty  years  younger.  He  knocked  at  the  back 
door  with  agitated  fingers,  and  entered  the  kitchen 
without  waiting  for  a  reply.  Was  it  possible  that 
Son  derby  had  been  deceived,  in  what  he  had  de 
clared  before  leaving  town  that  morning  ?  Had 
not  Tryphena  said  that  she  did  not  expect  to  see 
Collins  again  ?  Half-way  across  the  dark  kitchen 
Trumbull  stopped,  and  lest  he  should  frighten  her 
by  bursting  in  like  that,  he  called  out  her  name  — 

"Trypheny  !  " 

The  cottage  was  still. 

44  Trypheny !  "  His  voice  trembled  this  time. 
Then  he  stumbled  forward  and  flung  open  the 
sitting-room  door.  There  was  no  one  there.  Upon 
the  rocking-chair  by  the  window  lay  Mrs.  Floyd's 
shawl.  The  lamp  was  lighted,  and  a  whole  troop 
of  little  moths,  entering  through  the  open  window, 
were  fluttering  about  the  flame,  singeing  themselves 
to  death  against  the  chimney ;  and  the  flapping  of 
their  tiny,  feathered  wings  was  all  the  sound  the 
alarmed  old  man  could  hear,  though  he  strained 
his  ears  to  listen  through  a  long,  anxious  minute, 
before  he  turned  and  hurried  out. 

But  meanwhile  Collins  and  the  boy  had  picked 
their  way  down  through  the  lane,  and  had  climbed 


356  THE  BEOUGHTON  HOUSE. 

over  into  the  meadow.  It  was  barely  nine  o'clock, 
and  the  night  was  not  very  dark,  though  the  sky 
was  partially  overcast  and  the  stars  were  few  and 
languid.  The  meadow  grass  was  drenched  with 
dew,  and  Collins  stopped  to  turn  up  his  trousers. 
The  boy  had  on  his  stable  boots,  and  did  not  mind 
the  wet.  He  carried  his  unlighted  torch  in  an 
eager  hand,  and  was  proud  to  be  asked  to  accom 
pany  Mr.  Collins  upon  such  an  expedition,  though 
once  when  a  belated  sparrow  started  up  in  the 
tangle  of  golden-rod  to  the  left  of  their  narrow 
path,  the  boy  jumped,  and  kept  close  behind  his 
companion  after  that.  Johnny  envied  the  fearless 
way  in  which  Collins  strode  along,  cigar  in  mouth, 
not  seeming  to  be  startled  at  all  by  the  sparrow. 
Over  the  moist  meadow,  where  the  rowan  was  al 
ready  started,  fireflies  were  wandering,  gleaming 
softly  for  a  minute  and  then  going  out.  It  was  so 
quiet  there  in  the  meadow :  no  sound  at  all  except 
the  brushing  of  the  fisherman's  feet  upon  the  wet 
rowan,  and  the  rattle  of  the  oil-can  of  the  torch. 
They  climbed  rather  noisily  over  the  stone  wall, 
and  wound  up  the  path  through  the  pasture,  along 
by  the  dark,  fragrant  clumps  of  sweet-fern,  which 
wet  Collins's  legs  to  the  knees,  as  he  brushed  past 
them.  Up  they  pressed,  panting  a  little  till  they 
reached  the  level,  and  saw  the  pasture  bars  stand 
ing  out  huge  against  the  sky.  Here  they  stopped 
to  rest  a  moment ;  behind  them  were  the  straggling 
lights  of  the  village,  on  either  side  the  wide  sweep 


THE  BEOUGHTOX  HOUSE.  357 

of  pasture  and  meadow,  lying  indistinct  now  in  the 
murky  light,  except  where  the  valleys  and  the 
strips  of  woodland  made  dark  patches.  The  hori 
zon  was  narrowed  to  a  few  hundred  yards,  and  the 
quiet,  cloud}*  sky  hung  down  close  to  the  earth. 
From  in  front,  louder  than  by  day,  rose  the  noise 
of  water,  and  the  Hollow  broke  away  at  their  feet 
like  a  black  abyss.  Across  it  they  could  see  the 
hemlocks,  dimly  towering,  and  beyond  their  gloomy 
branches,  at  the  eastern  end  of  the  ledge,  there 
was  a  yellowish  tinge  in  the  clouds,  as  if  the  moon 
were  behind  them. 

"  Well,  come  on,  Johnny  !  "  cried  Collins,  start 
ing  down  into  the  Hollow.  He  had  a  keen  zest 
for  the  business :  his  blood  was  hot  and  high :  he 
was  bent  on  having  his  own  will,  this  silent  night. 
As  they  descended,  the  hill  kept  rising  dark  behind 
them,  between  them  and  the  village,  isolating  them. 
The  air  throbbed  with  the  plunging  of  the  water. 
When  they  got  within  a  few  yards  of  the  pool, 
Collins  stopped,  and  scrutinized  the  length  of  the 
torch.  It  was  a  very  long  one. 

"Look  here,"  said  Collins,  "you  stay  on  this 
side,  close  up  there,  by  the  stump.  I'll  get  on 
the  other  side,  just  over  the  ledge,  and  then  if  he 
comes  out  to  look  at  your  light,  I'll  be  right  on 
top  of  him.  Don't  light  up  till  I  get  over  there/' 

He  went  down  below  the  lower  end  of  the  pool, 
and  the  boy  heard  him  splash  through  the  brook, 
over  the  loose  stepping-stones.  Then  his  figure, 


358  THE  BEOUGIITON   HOUSE. 

a  black  shadow,  came  in  sight  again,  creeping  cau 
tiously  along  the  narrow  rock,  just  above  the  water. 
Nearer  and  nearer  he  crawled,  till  he  was  opposite 
the  stable-boy. 

"All  right! "  he  hissed  across  the  water.  "Light 
up."  He  half  rose  to  his  feet,  and  the  shaft  of  his 
spear  rattled  against  the  ledge  as  he  got  it  well  in 
hand  and  made  ready  to  poise  it.  The  boy  struck 
a  match,  and  touched  it  to  the  wick  of  his  torch. 
There  was  a  red,  smoky  flame. 

"Now  shove  it  out  toward  me,"  whispered 
Collins.  "  That's  it.  Now  steady.  Farther !  Far 
ther  !  —  Hold  on  !  What's  that !  " 

But  the  boy  had  seen  it  too,  in  the  same  instant. 
The  torch  dropped  into  the  pool  from  his  fright 
ened  hands,  and  he  turned  and  ran  up  the  black 
pasture-side  for  the  village,  screaming,  "  Help  !  — 
Help  !  "  in  a  paroxysm  of  fear,  "  Help !  Help  !  " 
in  his  clear,  boyish  voice,  while  on  the  ledge,  close 
by  the  water,  crouched  the  cowering  sensualist, 
and  the  moon,  peering  from  under  the  hemlock 
boughs  like  a  huge  eye,  gazed  down  at  him 
omnisciently. 


XVI. 

N  at  the  Center  Saturday  morning  broke 
clear  and  sunsliiny,  though  the  night  had  been 
cloudy  and  a  little  rain  had  fallen.  The  pavements 
were  wet  and  steaming  when  John  Sonderby  walked 
out  of  the  Central  Hotel  and  down  the  street  to 
the  station,  whither  the  hotel  hack  had  just  carried 
his  trunk  and  box  of  books.  He  squared  his  shoul 
ders,  inhaling  long  draughts  of  the  fresh  air.  His 
room  at  the  Central  Hotel  had  been  rather  close, 
and  the  electric  light  had  shone  in  through  the 
transom  enough  to  keep  him  awake  awhile  during 
the  first  part  of  the  night.  At  five  o'clock  the 
chorus  of  bells  and  whistles  from  the  factories  had 
wakened  him  again,  and,  as  the  Boston  express 
left  at  six,  he  rose  at  once,  and  having  succeeded 
in  getting  a  tolerable  breakfast,  had  ten  or  fifteen 
minutes  in  which  to  catch  his  train.  The  walk  to 
the  station  cleared  his  head,  and  he  passed  with  a 
springy  step  through  the  crowds  of  workmen  on 
their  way  to  the  factories.  Erect,  vigorous,  with 
enthusiastic  new  hopes  and  purposes,  John  Son 
derby  was  a  happy  man  that  morning.  The  world 
was  before  him.  It  made  his  breath  quicken  to 
hear  the  cry,  "  Here  she  conies  ! ''  as  the  heavy  ex- 


360  THE  JiKOUGIITON  HOUSE. 

press  swung  around  the  curve  and  rolled  into  the 
station.  He  got  aboard,  finding  'a  seat  in  the  first 
car  behind  the  sleepers.  There  were  not  many 
persons  there,  and  most  of  them  looked  frowzy 
and  tired  from  the  night's  ride.  "  All  aboard  I " 
cried  the  conductor ;  the  grimy  brakeman  slammed 
the  door  of  Sonderby's  car,  and  the  train  resumed 
its  scarcely  interrupted  motion.  Away  from  the 
smoky  Center,  from  the  clattering  noises  of  mill 
and  factory,  off  down  the  wooded  valley  it  sped, 
on  its  tireless  way  to  Boston. 

But  it  did  not  move  any  too  fast  for  John  Son- 
derby.  He  was  already  planning  what  he  would 
do  that  afternoon.  Perhaps  Harry  Duffield  would 
meet  him  at  the  train ;  at  any  rate,  he  had  tele 
graphed  that  he  was  coming.  It  was  queer  that 
Harry  might  do  him  a  good  turn  in  Boston,  after 
all,  even  if  it  were  nothing  more  than  to  secure 
him  a  place  at  a  boarding-house.  He  thought  it 
would  be  best  to  call  upon  the  A.  S.  &  F.  people, 
just  to  make  their  acquaintance,  even  if  the  posi 
tion  they  had  once  offered  him  had  now  been  filled. 
Very  likely  there  might  be  an  opening  there  later. 
But  it  was  no  matter  if  there  should  be  none ; 
there  were  plenty  of  places  in  the  world,  and  he 
knew  well  enough  the  stuff  he  had  in  him.  Oh, 
to  get  to  work  again !  And  he  thought  of  his 
books  in  the  baggage  car,  and  wished  he  had  one 
with  him,  that  he  might  not  waste  the  time.  He 
tried  to  work  out  some  equations  in  physics  in  his 


THE  BROVGHTOX  HOUSE.  361 

head,  and  then  smiled  at  himself  for  being  so  eager. 
There  would  be  time  enough  for  all  that.  He 
might  better  look  out  of  the  window  now  and 
gaze  his  last  at  the  green  hill  country ;  there  was 
no  knowing  when  he  would  see  it  again. 

Through  the  narrow  valley  down  which  the  ex 
press  was  thundering  ran  a  river,  and  Sonderby 
watched  a  long  time  the  brown,  shallow  water 
and  the  white,  up-curving  heaps  of  foam  where  the 
rocks  protruded.  The  foam  seemed  trying  to  climb 
up  stream ;  and  though  it  always  slipped  back,  it 
never  lost  patience,  and  Sonderby  amused  him 
self  by  watching  the  ever-repeated  struggle,  as 
curve  after  curve  of  the  river  brought  new  rapids 
into  view.  It  occurred  to  him  suddenly  that  this 
was  the  stream  which  turned  the  Center  factories, 
and  which  took  its  rise  up  in  Broughton.  Sure 
enough,  the  very  stream !  He  retraced,  in  his 
fancy,  its  course,  and  with  his  turn  for  mathematics 
tried  to  calculate  its  velocity,  and  the  length  of 
time  required  for  a  given  particle  of  water  to  be 
carried,  say,  from  the  Hollow  behind  the  village, 
which  was  as  far  up  as  Sonderby  had  ever  followed 
the  brook,  down  through  the  meadows  and  long 
pasture  slopes  to  the  Center,  past  the  black  wheels 
of  the  factories,  and  so  on  down  the  river  till  it 
was  opposite  him,  and  made  a  part  of  one  of  those 
white  spurts  of  foam.  Then  he  began  to  think 
about  Broughton,  and  it  seemed  as  if  he  had 
already  been  away  from  the  village  a  good  while. 


362  THE  BROUGHTON  HOUSE. 

He  wondered  if  he  would  ever  go  back,  after 
a  time,  to  see  the  old  acquaintances,  made  in 
the  course  of  those  three  dormant  years.  Yes,  he 
thought  he  would.  But  he  did  not  intend  to  wait 
so  long  as  that  before  he  learned  news  of  some 
people  up  in  the  village.  He  meant  to  write  to 
her  —  to  Mrs.  Floyd  —  as  soon  as  he  was  settled  ; 
she  undoubtedly  would  be  willing  to  answer,  just  a 
few  words,  from  time  to  time,  to  let  him  know  how 
it  was  going  with  her.  There  would  be  no  harm 
in  it.  Poor  little  woman  !  She  was  brave,  though, 
and  he  had  cruelly  misjudged  her.  Still,  if  it  had 
not  been  for  that,  —  he  thought  with  a  sort  of 
tremble  at  the  heart,  —  if  it  had  not  been  for  his 
thinking  ill  of  her,  he  might  not  have  been  cured 
of  his  own  folly,  he  might  be  up  there  in  Brough- 
ton  still,  waiting  to  throw  himself  away,  if  she  ever 
had  given  him  the  word.  Instead  of  this,  it  was 
she  who  had  urged  him  to  go,  to  win  for  himself 
the  place  in  the  world  that  belonged  to  him,  and  it 
was  really  in  obedience  to  her  wish  that  he  was 
here  now,  on' his  way  to  his  life  work.  Strange 
that  he  had  not  thought  of  it  in  that  way  before  ! 
Ah,  how  much  he  owed  her !  more  than  any  one 
could  ever  know.  The  brave,  silent  woman,  with 
her  own  great  trouble. 

The  express  train  rumbled  out  of  the  valley,  and 
slowed  up  again  at  another  town.  A  few  passengers 
came  into  the  car,  among  them  a  fresh-faced  girl 
of  twenty,  with  her  mother.  They  took  the  seat 


THE  BEOUGHTON  HOUSE.  363 

in  front  of  Sonclerby ;  and  when  the  girl  dropped 
one  of  her  bundles  into  the  aisle,  in  seating  her 
self,  Sonderby  handed  it  to  her,  and  thought  she 
thanked  him  prettily.  He  watched  the  two  for  a 
while,  wondering  where  they  were  going,  and  ad 
mired  the  way  in  which  the  girl  made  her  mother 
comfortable,  and  the  business-like  air  with  which 
she  handed  their  tickets  to  the  conductor.  People 
seemed  wonderfully  interesting  to  him  that  morn 
ing  ;  it  was  as  if  he  were  beginning  his  human  ex 
perience  all  over  again,  and  could  look  at  every 
thing  with  new  eyes.  So  the  train  rushed  along, 
in  the  cool  morning  hours,  crossing  fertile  valleys 
and  barren  scrub-oak  ridges,  leaving  the  foaming 
river  far  behind  as  it  bore  John  Sonderby  toward 
Boston,  and  the  fellow  was  strong  in  purpose,  and 
had  hope  and  tenderness  of  heart. 

Over  the  Broughton  uplands,  that  afternoon,  a 
gentle  west  wind  was  blowing.  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Ellerton  felt  it  upon  their  faces,  as  they  drove 
slowly  along  a  hill  road,  on  their  way  home  from 
Canuck  Corner.  They  would  scarcely  have  gone 
on  this  day,  had  it  not  been  that  a  case  of  extreme 
poverty  and  threatening  illness  had  left  the  pastor 
no  alternative,  and  Ruth  would  not  let  him  go 
alone.  The  minister  and  his  wife  were  very  silent, 
and  Ellerton  was  grave.  The  horror  of  the  last 
night  had  scarcely  had  time  to  disappear  from  their 
faces,  and  even  now,  Mrs.  Ellerton  cried  a  little, 
from  time  to  time,  as  the  phaeton  carried  them 


364  THE  BEOUGHTON  HOUSE. 

through  the  lonely  outskirts  of  their  parish.  In 
all  the  excitement  that  had  wakened  the  village 
the  night  before,  in  the  unavailing  efforts,  the 
awful  sense  of  impotency,  these  two  persons  had 
had  a  share.  She  had  been  one  of  those  who  in 
the  early  morning  had  rendered  that  last  loving 
service  which  only  women  understand.  It  was 
the  first  time  she  had  ever  helped  to  do  it.  Arthur 
had  been  telegraphing,  arranging,  driving  hastily 
to  the  Center,  doing  whatever  was  necessary. 
There  was  no  one  else  to  take  the  responsibility. 
Aunt  Tryphosa  had  replied  to  his  message,  and 
expected  to  reach  Broughton  that  evening;  but 
he  could  get  no  trace  of  Floyd.  It  had  been  a 
strange  morning;  unlike  anything  else  in  the 
cheery  young  minister's  experience.  lie  was 
sobered,  haunted  with  a  feeling  that  he  had  under 
rated  the  terrible  forces  that  were  playing  all 
about  him.  At  dinner-time  he  and  his  wife  had  sat 
for  the  most  part  speechless,  looking  at  each  other. 
It  was  so  sudden !  Only  the  day  before  Mrs. 
Ellerton  had  slipped  her  correctly  engraved  card 
under  the  locked  door  of  the  cottage.  But  when 
the  afternoon  brought  the  summons  to  Canuck 
Corner,  Ellerton  collected  himself,  and  drove  off 
to  do  his  work.  Mrs.  Ellerton,  too,  found  that 
she  was  needed  in  the  French  Canadian  hovel,  and 
in  the  effort  to  bring  cleanliness  and  comfort  and 
a  little  heart  of  grace  into  the  squalid  house,  both 
the  minister  and  his  wife  forgot  something  of  the 


THE  llllOUGIITON  HOUSE.  365 

other  —  the  nightmare.  As  they  left  the  Corner 
behind  them,  at  last,  and  made  their  way  home 
ward  over  the  hill  road,  walking  the  horse,  and 
letting  the  west  wind  cool  their  heavy  eyelids, 
something  of  the  accustomed  composure  came 
back  to  them.  The  tears  might  creep  up,  now 
and  then,  into  Ruth  Ellerton's  gray  eyes,  but  she 
could  not  help  that. 

"  Oh,  Arthur,"  she  cried  once,  as  the  horse 
stopped  of  his  own  accord  at  the  summit  of  a  long 
hill,  "  we  must  try  harder  !  We  must  not  let  them 
slip  away."  Her  voice  trembled  in  its  intensity. 

44  Yes,  my  dear,"  he  answered,  seriously,  under 
standing  her.  Xo  other  word  was  needed.  Differ 
ent  as  these  two  were,  and  differently  as  they  had 
received  that  day's  experience,  they  had  a  common 
aspiration  and  a  common  peace.  There  are  shores 
many ;  there  is  but  one  inflowing  tide. 

Lower  sank  the  sun  in  the  clear  August  sky. 
Shadows  began  to  fill  the  hollows  of  the  pastures, 
though  mile  after  mile  of  sunlit  lonely  hilltops 
were  spread  all  around.  It  was  a  beautiful  world 
they  beheld,  a  beautiful  world  to  live  in  and  to 
work  in.  The  wind  blew  cooler,  but  still  they  sat 
there  on  the  hilltop,  gazing,  wondering. 

Out  on  the  Atlantic  the  wind  blew  cooler,  too, 
and  the  Hamburg  steamer  quivered  slightly  as  she 
caught  the  long  rollers  of  the  open  sea.  The  blue 
waste  was  roughening,  and  the  horizon,  which  had 
appeared  so  distant  when  she  left  Sandy  Hook, 


366  THE  BROUGHTON  HOUSE. 

seemed  narrowing  in  on  every  side.  Floyd,  leaning 
contentedly  against  the  rail,  cigarette  in  mouth, 
noted  with  an  artist's  interest  the  change,  and 
tried  to  explain  it  in  German  to  his  companion,  an 
affable  Jewish  wine-merchant  from  Wiesbaden,  who 
had  been  informing  him  about  the  prospects  for  that 
year's  vintage.  They  watched  the  water  a  while 
longer,  chatting  together,  and  then  as  the  wind 
grew  chillier,  they  lounged  into  the  smoking-room, 
to  see  if  any  one  was  organizing  a  pool  upon  the 
first  day's  run. 

But  on  the  Broughton  hilltop  the  horizon  widened 
as  the  sun  sank  lower  and  the  wind  blew  keener. 
Infinitely  remote  seemed  those  farthest  lines  and 
crests,  but  clear,  and  suffused  with  the  same  light 
that  turned  the  bleached  grass  of  the  nearest  pas 
tures  to  a  sudden  gold. 


Typography  by  J.  S.  Cashing  &  Co.,  Boston,  Mass. 
Presswork  by  Berwick  &  Smith,  Boston,  Mass. 


